


Heart's Cure to Our Tangled Fates

by PhoenixDiamond



Category: Trolls (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Drama, Explicit Sex, F/F, F/M, Flirting, Humor, Implied Incest, M/M, Mild Language, Romance, Some Fluff, Some little magic, lots of love, original fairytale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-01-06 06:43:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12205947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDiamond/pseuds/PhoenixDiamond
Summary: Disclaimer: I do not own the movie Trolls or the characters or songs that may be used in this story. I am merely writing this for fun. I only own the plot.Summary: Prince Branch’s turned twenty-one now, so it’s high time he’s chosen a mate to rule alongside him as King of Troll Valley. Naturally, Creek, Captain of the Royal Guard and private lover, is the prince's first choice. Unfortunately, his father has other ideas and hadn’t thought to consult his son about having been engaged to someone since he was ten. This poses a problem.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of two original fairytales I want to give a try. I always wanted to attempt this kind of plot and Troll is the most perfect candidate for it, so why not. I guesstimate this story to be 15 moderate length chapters. I welcome everyone who decides to give this a try and from the bottom of my heart, thank you for reading. Please excuse any mistakes.

 

**Chapter 1: Introduction**

Branch should have been prepared. It isn’t the first time they’ve done this and yet, he still reacts the way an amateur does when suddenly snatched out of the middle of the hall and packed to the wall. Why should he have expected it, predicted this predicament? Because it always happens before an important event or announcement. It’s as if Creek gets off on knowing they’re pressed for time and wants to work as diligently as possible to beat it.

“I can’t help myself,” says Creek, already working on the tedious task of loosening Branch’s studded belt buckle. It’s taken the handmaids several minutes to center it just right. “How can I resist when you look so stunning in your uniform?”

Branch swats his hands away and flattens his hands to Creek’s chest, as he presses his ear to his bedroom door a third time when he’s sure he heard someone coming down the corridor. “Which won’t do me a bit of good if it’s off,” he jeers, paranoia eating at his nerves. “Come on Creek, we’re expected—”

“Not for another hour,” Creek murmurs. The belt slips around Branch’s waist and falls noiselessly to the floor. “There’s plenty of time.”

An hour may seem like a lot, but not when preparations need to be governed, stations inspected and being royalty and next in line for the throne, there’s a certain level of rectitude Branch is meant to uphold. Branch won’t be at ease until he’s made sure everything’s as it should be. Of course, he doesn’t necessarily have to be the one to handle the responsibilities. Poppy can easily handle the burden.

And prefers it’s better that it falls to her anyway since she often claims his taste in décor is easily compared to a five-year-old in the middle of a white room and free paint. Mother’s even said the duties would be better suited to Poppy and that Branch keep to overseeing all military, village needs and negotiations between kingdoms. Father’s said his influence is, well, tarnished and desperately needs to be polished. Let the women take care of hosting and entertainments. The men will be protectors.

Branch knows his role. He’s had years to hone his place within the royal family and knows he’s done just fine keeping up with the demands. The populace, as a whole is happy; well sustained in health, food and safety. He still worries. It’s to be expected. It isn’t as if things can’t go wrong. He knows they can and he wants to be there to cut it off at the past to avoid it escalating into a larger issue.

A hand slithers up the front of his charcoal gray tunic, pressed close to his skin by a silver breasted waist coat. Branch suppresses a gasp when Creek palms over his pectoral and squeezes. The urgency builds like a stoked fire. His willpower’s weakening. “What if someone—”

“Have we ever been caught before?” Creek leans in to nip and lick at the taunt cords of muscle in Branch’s neck. As he speaks, the words course a vibration to the prince’s ear and neck. “That’s why we always do it here, yes? To avoid detection. No one would dare disturb Prince Branch while he’s prepping.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be assembling the guard?”

“Lieutenant Guy Diamond has it under control,” Creek breathes in the prince’s ear and skims his jawline with moist kisses.

Branch sucks in deeply as more of his resolve crumbles, succumbing to the wave of desire. There isn’t enough time. “Creek—”

“We can easily excuse our tardiness to securing perimeters. It’s happened before.”

“Father doesn’t take kindly to using the same excuse twice. By the third time, there had better be a change to the routine.”

“I’ll deal with your father if it comes to it.” Creek takes Branch’s wrist and guides it down to the front of his close-fitting black breeches; his palm’s full of the captain’s erection. “Please, love, I haven’t felt your touch in a fortnight.”

“It’s been three days,” Branch whispers, thumb sweeping over the length of it, so hot and thick through the heavy material.  

“It feels like so much longer.” Creek slides his hands over Branch’s hips, slips through his waistband and curves under his buttocks. “Far, far too long.”

Branch exhales a shuddering sigh. He was at the point of stabbing through his trousers. Creek’s scent reminds him of the castle gardens since he patrols them often, and the smell of leather that sheaths his sword. “Poppy doesn’t always knock.”

That hardly deters Creek. He shows how little he cares by pushing Branch’s pants down and steps on the crotch with one foot until they bunched on the floor around their feet. Then Creek’s fingers coil hard under Branch’s bare thigh and lifts his leg around his hipbone.

He’s lost. Branch makes a frustrated noise as, at long last, his fingers untangle the ties to Creek’s breeches, tugging anxiously at the ribbons keeping his waist fastened. His pulse is racing loud in his ears. “This is so stupid. _We’re stupid_ and reckless for doing this.”

Creek retrieves a vile of scented oils from his hair and dapples his fingers in it. “Perhaps,” he returns the vile and reaches under to trail his fingers along the seam of Branch’s behind. “But you love the thrill of it, don’t you?”

“ _Ah Captain_. . .”

“You’re caving. . .” Creek smirks dirtily as Branch squirms in his arms.

Branch sighs per every thrust the fingers sunk inside him. “Poppy will know. G-Guy Diamond will know. . . _Oh God_.”

“So, they will,” Creek concurs, leaving a glossy trail along Branch’s jawline. “And they’ll cover our tracks if we aren’t clever or coherent enough to remember to do it ourselves.”

One of these days, Branch will discover he does have a backbone under all the heated carnal burning through his skin. Every single chance Creek gets, he impulsively takes it, and Branch lets him. On more than just their lusty trysts too. The Captain of the Royal Guard is courageous, daring, brash and audacious—his merciless magnetism and unrelenting certainty and aptitude for militant stratagem give him the natural born qualities for a leader. However, given his young age, at twenty-two achieving a position so high in respect, it makes him arrogant and when often left unchecked, could easily lead their kingdom into many unnecessary conflicts.

That’s where Branch comes in. Branch keeps him grounded, compels him to use patience and thought, and asks him questions that Creek will have never considered important and demands answers before acting. Most of their successes lie in their ability to coordinate, two sides of the same coin, fire and cold, hasty and hesitant. It works.

However, there are some things Branch will always win such as when they play chess and staying organized; Creek’s much better at tactics and sex. Hence, why Branch can never refuse and he doubts in the future he ever will, despite his protests.

Branch clamps his teeth in the gold velvet braids on Creek’s shoulder, struggling not to thrash and whimper as the captain slowly pushes inside of him. Both of his feet are hoist off the ground, both thighs squeezing Creek’s waist and his back against the smooth dry wall. His entire body jerks weakly with the force of Creek’s thrusts, languid and deep. It hurts a little, but it’s fine. Sometimes Branch wants it to if to remind him of their affair, because of how forbidden and taboo it is for royalty to mate any servant of the family.

Creek’s breathy pants are searing and balmy in Branch’s ear, so loud and so not. “You love the way I mate you,” he whispers. His hands cup Branch’s behind and he holds him in place as he quickens his ruts. Branch’s arms squeezed Creek’s face into his neck, mouth full of cloth; he knows he can’t reply without shouting, can’t do it without getting them caught.

That’s where that recklessness buzzes inside Creek; he knows Branch’s holding back to avoid being caught and it encourages him to roughen their sex. “Isn’t it, Branch? So do I. I can’t stand for anyone else look at you, to touch you.” He possessively nips at Branch’s sensitive ear, quickening his thrusts. “You’re mine. All mine.”

Branch’s eyes deliriously roll, sparkling in blind white. He doesn’t want anyone else. He loves it when Creek makes it clear that Branch only belongs to him and the aggressive grunt in his voice never fails to hang him over the edge. The jealousy, the narrow gazes at any troll bold enough to stake a claim on what’s already owned, Branch lives for it. It can be no other way—to have his beloved captain wrapped in his arms, it can’t be any other way. No regrets. None.

Branch gasps, unclenching his jaw. “Creek,” he breathes in the rounded purple ears, toes curling. Creek’s flow falters and he tenses. “I’m yours, only yours.”

He feels Creek’s hand wrap around his sex, the palm calloused and hot and strong, pumping. Already so close, he comes moments later, spilling his seed—thankfully in all of Creek’s hand. Creek sharply grunts and spasms as he follows suit. His head bows, shaking with the effort to keep silent and he only does it because he _must_ be quiet.

Listless and content, the two bask in slow kissing, limbs tangled and their minds only on each other.

Later, when they’ve cleaned the evidence away, washed and helped one another fix their uniforms into place, they stand in the large corridor, walking to the ballroom chamber, alert and stern-faced. Seriousness of the coming responsibilities to bear are etch into their expressions, focused. The only sign they were more than a prince and captain, honoring obligations, are their interlaced hands lasting as long as them reaching the massive double doors.

And it’s where they separate to claim their rightful places.

_“Branch!”_

Poppy is hurrying towards him, gripping the hem of her lily pleated gown so as to keep from scuffing or ripping it. All her bright pink hair hangs in pinned waterfall curls, curving along the side of her rosy cheeks. Her face is freshly polished with make-up, but it doesn’t do anything to hide the darkening in her cheeks and it’s prominent enough for Branch to see where he stands at the entrance. He’ll make sure to tell her so later.

She looks stunning as always, in the sheer silvery-blue colors that didn’t hint in the slightest of being offensive or transparent. She looks him in the eye, colored lips tooted in a pout as she stops in front of him.

“Where have you been? Don’t you know how distressing it is to oversee the cooking _and_ decorating alone? Mother’s too wrapped up in pleasantries to lean a hand and Father refuses to lift a finger to do anything he feels would demote his kingly stature.” She rolls her eyes here and probably doesn’t care about how rude it is.

Branch shares her displeasure, doing the same. “I would’ve been here sooner to help, but he had me fawning over my ‘ _princely’_ ” he air quotes, “chores. Reviewing the invitations, setting up security, and I can’t even begin to tell you how much he wants me committed to being the representation of what it is to be the picture of stability. If there’s a tapestry tilted out of place, he’ll relieve the entire servant core.”

Poppy’s hands dramatically fly to her mouth and shrieks, “He wouldn’t—not so close to the guests arriving, would he?”

“Oh yes, you were ten when he did it last time and so deeply invested in your dolls, you wouldn’t have noticed.”

“What could possibly be more important than tea time for a ten-year old? Nothing.”

“That proves my point.” Branch carefully removes her hands, guiding one to the crook of his arm and escorts her through the hustle and bustle of the servants dashing here and there. “I think he found red roses planted by the draw bridge and thought they were such a violent shade of red, that he suspended the whole gardening crew for being so. . . what’s the word he used, I can’t remember.”

“Impudent, bold, insolent, contumelious, brazen. . .”

“. . . Flippant, precarious, presumptuous, impertinent.” 

“Malapert,” they both finished, sharing in a laugh.

Branch swings her around, lifting their hands to playfully spin her on the tip of her toe. “By the way, have I told you how enchanting you look this afternoon? Such a diamond-like shine.”

She squeals, delighted at the praise. “Aren’t I? Satin and Chenille have outdone themselves this time. I feel so beautiful.”

 “You’d still be dazzling even without it.” Branch grasps her hands in his and leans to kiss her cheek. Then he steps away, animating a wounded expression. “Well? Isn’t it courteous to return the compliment?”

“Oh hush, you already know how handsome you are.”

Branch goes to strike a noble pose, lifting his head to catch the rays of the sunlight so it glistens off the silver embroidery of leaves and vines on his waistcoat. He’s always had an impressive profile and given Poppy’s mocking swoons, he doesn’t fail to show it off.

“If we don’t receive ten proposals a piece, there’s something wrong.” Poppy touches his wrist, nodding to urge him forward. “I wish Father hadn’t chosen such an ill day to host, whatever, this announcement is about. Have you seen the clouds in the distance? A storm is sure to come.”

“Probably an ominous sign,” Branch grumps, ignoring Poppy’s swat at his arm. “What? Don’t deny it. You know he has a flare for the theatrics. The lightning will likely highlight his opposition.”

The siblings sigh as one and continue their observing trek around the whole of the ballroom. It is a lively collaboration of orders being called, decorations trading between hands and tests of music gently coloring the atmosphere in brief indications of the numbers to be chosen. Branch notices the quietening grace to his younger sister’s stroll when they near the assemble orchestra. He slows his stride as well, feigning interest in other activities taking place by the draperies, but he does keep a steady note out of the corner of his eye as his sister’s gaze lingers longest on the chief conductor.    

The last of the short rehearsal draws to a close as the conductor lowers her hands, guiding the tempo and choir to silence. She claps once, offering nodding praises and sharp criticism.

“Well done all. A few more drills should tighten on phrasing and pitches. Woodwinds don’t be so quick to leave the snares. They’re the lifeblood, the heart, of the entire musical ensemble. Without a pulse, you’re dead, right?”

“Yes ma’am!” The musicians echo.

“Good, take a break. I’ll see you back here in ten minutes. Don’t make me come find you!” With that done, she snaps her fingers, effectively dismissing the mass.

DJ Suki steps off the stand, straightening her white collared couture and satiny black circle skirt. She’s bunched most of her thick auburn hair over her right shoulder, save for a few rebellious strands framing her heart shape face. She’s a composed vision of ambience and poise. It isn’t a surprise that many often comment how it seems music naturally flows from her every movements. 

Branch looks between his sister’s longing staring and at Suki’s obliviousness while she adjusts her outfit. He scoffs and politely clears his throat. Suki glances up, brightly meeting his gaze and comes forward to curtsy before the siblings.

“Prince,” she smiles, then glances at Poppy, expression softening, “Princess,” she greets.

Poppy offers a small smile and dips as well. “Conductor.”

“You look . . . real lovely,” Suki breathes in a manner Branch is certain she doesn’t recognize as being as revealing as the way her eyes follow a leisure trail over smooth, bare pink shoulders and the length of Poppy’s neck accented by a diamond necklace.

The staring borders on the obscene. Poppy flushes so brightly, her skin takes a reddening undertone. Branch lifts an eyebrow, clearing his throat again. Suki snaps her face in his direction and has the grace to blush. “Um, so do you, Prince Branch.”

He moves his fist up to cover his smile. “How go the rehearsals?”

“Splendidly!” she beams. “I’ve got a collection of scores sure to stir the entire ballroom. There won’t be a single pair of feet settled before the night’s through.” She makes show of looking back and forth before leaning in to whisper, “I’ve even thrown in a few selections to really set the mood.” She winks.

Branch returns the gesture. “You’ll be sure to save a dance for _us_ , yes?” He pointedly emphasizes the us and it doesn’t go past Poppy whom openly widens her eyes in shock.

“Of course,” says Suki, gazing at Poppy minutely then to Branch. “I’ll make the time.” She does a short curtsy then hears her name being called from across the room. “I don’t think anyone can function without me. I’m sorry, I’ll see you both tonight.” And goes to answer the summon.

Once she whips out of sight, Branch finds his sister dark rose eyes pining silently after the conductor and the quiver in her right hand to keep from reaching out. He must pause and study this, because his own reaction to it is complicated and not easy to put into words. She’s eighteen, still so fresh and pure, so it mildly disturbs him that she may know what it means to be intimate. He certainly hopes she hasn’t been, but he doesn’t disapprove of her choice. This crush of hers has become more obvious, less discreet. If she doesn’t get a handle on it soon, whatever she may be feeling will be seen by their parents.

Whom, Branch was still on the fence about telling about his own situation.

He kindly pats Poppy’s hand and wills her to join him in going to see their parents. They could both use the distraction so their hearts don’t betray their yearning.

Queen Calla tilts her head back, absorbing the rush and buzz of activity surrounding her with a smile. Every troll has their purpose, answering to each task with bounce and vigor in their steps. She’s taken to touring the arrangements alone, watching, offering suggestions when asked or when she notices something hazardous to tonight’s integrity. She won’t do much more than assist of course. She wants to leave the more relevant duties to Poppy and so far, there’s been minimum error. She’s done a fine composition.

“Mother!”

The queen shifts, blinking to clear her thoughts and searching until she sees her children approaching. Poppy throws herself in the queen’s arms, elegant hands crunching in the fabric of her gown. Her youngest and sweetest child, who plays the flute and sings and dances so fluently, all eyes would travel after her in their greedy envy to either mimic her grace and elegance. She’s played her hand at helping the conductor prepare wonderful scores for balls and she’s surely the best dancer. She loves to socialize, and be crowded by all guests of various statures.

“My sweet baby,” Calla coos, lightly cradling the curls bound behind the bind of Poppy’s crown; a braided circular band of crystal and silver. “You’ve done marvelously. This will be one of your best works yet.”

“You think so, Mama?”

“Poppy, don’t crowd our queen,” Branch softly scolds. He wedges himself between them, smoothing away the wrinkles from Poppy’s dress until she’s presentable, then turns to take his mother’s hand, bowing his brow upon it. “Mother, you’re the loveliest. Lovelier every day, even. The summer air does wonders for you.”

 “Formalities aren’t needed here, Branch.” Queen Calla cups her eldest child’s face, carding her fingers through his stalk of royal blue hair. “I’m not your father. Call me how you see fit.”

“Father won’t approve.”

“What did _I_ say?”

Branch flushes. “Yes, Mom.”

She pinches his cheek. “Better. Now, come with me,” she says, taking his arm. “I’ve yet to mingle and I’m afraid my rudeness is putting off the staff. Come along, Poppy.”

Poppy happily cozies under her mother’s arm, ignoring Branch’s disapproving scowl as they carried on through the ballroom. If it weren’t for keeping face, Branch would have pulled a curl loose from his sister’s hair, but knew better than to misbehave. Not when he could practically feel his father’s scrutiny burning over the endeavors of his servants as well as his family.

Branch inhales, and automatically turns to the highest balustrade, exhaling visibly the moment he locks on his father’s stern stare.

_‘You look so much like your father.’_

_‘You’re going to grow up to be just like your king.’_

_‘Oh, you’re the spitting image of King Sage when he was your age. A picture-perfect replica.’_

Branch has always heard this, but he became more conscious of it during his eighteenth birthday when all the courtiers would assemble in hordes around him, complimenting his handsome traits and how they all resembled King Sage in his youth.

King Sage is dapper, fiercely intelligent, and comely. He wears his title as proudly as he does his natural colors; skin a fine cyan teal, and hair so bright blue, one can never look at it for long or suffer temporary after images bedazzling their vision. His eyes were the deepest stormy blue and always focused and concentrated.

Branch may look like him, but that’s where the similarities end. They should have all been taken at face value and gracious nods, those comments. And Branch did, with silent appreciation of course. But with the comparisons of his looks to his fathers, come the expectations in similarities of how the people think the kingdom will be ran. No change, no difference. Only tradition and routine will continue to exist, is what they think, but it isn’t to be so. Branch doesn’t share all his father’s beliefs, his firm hand of justice or demand for constant order. Their ideals were different and it often leads to arguments over the silliest things.

With a curt nod, Branch returns his gaze forward, joining his mother and sister in their conversation while his father continued looking on.

By nightfall, the ball chamber is alight with the buzz of conversation, merriment and fun. Court jesters and dancers provided grand performances to entertain the masses. Most of the villagers have arrived, delighted to be invited to whatever mysterious announcement the king intends to share with the kingdom.

“Darling, you’re scowling again.”

King Sage blinks, casting a side glance at his wife. “Am I now?”

“You’ll make your face wrinkle more,” she teases and reaches out to run a finger over the crease in his forehead. “Although, I don’t mind the added ridges. It gives you a sort of dashing wisdom.” The finger then takes to drawing discreet circles under his cheek and to the rim of his waistcoat collar.  

King Sage gives a harsh cough and glances away. “Calla, behave yourself.”

The queen winks sweetly before righting herself on the throne and setting to study over the festivities. “Poppy’s done well, don’t you think?”

“I always anticipant bearing witness to quality production. Poppy’s never provided anything short of fine production.”

“Security’s tight, the guests are entertained—”

“And Branch is nowhere in sight to offer hospitality.”

Calla sighs. “Dear—”

“I swear, that boy,” King Sage huffs, drumming his fingers over his throne's armrest. “He’s too soft hearted and carefree.”

“He’s likely taking a breather. He’s been speaking to earls and dukes since the evening began.”

“How difficult can that really be? Does he expect to rule this kingdom if he can’t manage the simplest duties?”

“It’s a wonder you can without running up your blood pressure.”

Sage gasps, turning to his queen, appall. “I’ll have you know the medics have given me a clean board of health. I’m as fit as any troll my age. Perhaps fitter.” It’s only out of habit that he reaches up to straighten his already perfectly aligned gold crown and curtly nods to end the discussion.

“You’re adorable when you’re upset.” Calla curls a finger over her lips to tame a coming giggle. “So much like a fluffed kitty.”

“Calla!” Sage can’t contain the faint blush coloring his cheeks a lavender hue.

“What?” asks Calla, blinking innocently. “You teased me all morning.”

“Only because you humiliate me left and right. I need to get my shots in now and again.”

“My aim’s better.”

“So, you think,” comes a low growl, but a smile’s prominent in his tone. “Just you wait until this is over. . . You’re going to get it.”

Calla grins. “I look forward to it, sire.” She leans to bump their noses and kisses the corner of his mouth.

Then the pair return to watch over the clambake celebrations with gaiety and pleasure.

It’s only during the briefest intermission from the musicians that the queen’s eyes avert to the right, observing the captain of the royal guard’s casual stroll through the people. His stride may seem purposeless, but the direction he goes isn’t. A twinkle glints in her eyes once she sees his target.

 _‘If only they knew how obvious they were,’_ she thinks, amused. _‘A bee couldn’t make their love of honey more apparent.’_

It’s funny how less frequently this particular ballroom isn’t used to host celebrations. It’s often done in the west wing of the castle pod, whilst this one was utilized for sparring practices. The spacious walls and smooth floor provide amble mobility and range. Now, various tables holding bountiful foods and drinks flanked the sides, and pinned up flower streamers embellish the walls the way a blanket covers a bed. Cobalt blue, white, and sterling banners bejeweled with dark silver glitter hang limply from the ceiling to match the draperies and table clothes. The middle is left open for socializing and dancing, but some seats are placed everywhere for the weary.

And meanwhile, instead of being able to properly enjoy the fun, Branch is up to his neck with ambassadors, looking as noble and friendly as ever even as they grouped around him, too close for comfort. Much too close for Creek’s comfort too.

There were two occasions he’d seen the duke of Marmalade Vale laughing at a joke from Branch and touches the prince’s shoulder with a hand that lingers too long. Then there is the pretty courtier with the shining dress that left no doubt of what her intentions were, attracting every set of eyes possible to her curvy figure. She kept brushing her hip to Branch’s side and giggling too much. No one should giggle that much. And her make-up makes her look like she’d lost in combat to paint brushes.

Creek swallows the last of his perennial wine before placing it on a passing waiter’s tray and makes his way across the ballroom. Jealousy tastes horrid in his mouth, but the thought of anyone attempting to take the prince sets his blood aflame. Call him possessive, but he’s had years of loving the prince and only five years ago did he act on those feelings. It’d been a calculated risk, confessing on bended knee, and hoping against hope that his heart wouldn’t be shattered.

The heavens smiled on him when Branch returned his affections just as feverously and they’d been a tangle of limbs and romance ever since.

And the heavens were still smiling on him yet. The beginnings of a slow, popular waltz, Butou no Eros began to purr from the violins. It isn’t strange to see high ranking soldiers dance with royalty. He’s dance with them all before and will so again.

When he nears, Creek cleverly moves towards the center of the horde and comes to Branch’s side. The music comes to its first climatic pitch, the moment is perfect.

Creek coughs in his fist, and when the prince faces him, the captain bows low, offering his hand. “My fair prince, will you honor me with a dance?”

It takes a while for the prince to answer and that’s only to keep from seeming so eager to be freed of the chattering vultures and to finally have a chance to dance. Creek covers his smile until he feels Branch’s hand land in his and he promptly guides them to the center of the dancefloor.

They step close to one another, Creek cupping his right hand to Branch’s shoulder and the other grasp in his left hand. Branch blinks and smiles when he realizes he’ll lead and lays his left hand to Creek’s waist. They fell into formation, waltzing to the pace of the rest of the couples, swaying, keeping even to the tempo. Long steps drew them along the entire dance floor that ends up splitting the partners in opposite directions, gliding through a thong of those in lead or being guided and come back together.

Some trolls gawk, while others softly gasp and nudge each other. It always happens whenever someone noble came close to them, but Branch ignores them.

“How’s your evening been so far?” Branch asks as they twirled. “A fate better than mine, I’m sure.”

Creek lets himself be spun and comes back into Branch’s arms. “You can’t possibly understand how torturing it is seeing you being hounded by those villains. I’m ready to leave here. If another courtier brushes her bosom on my arm, I’m going to jail. I swear it, Branch.”

“You should have done what I did,” Branch frowns. “The last nobleman who put his hand on me, I nearly cut it off. Had he been a moment later, I’d have lopped off the whole thing.”

“Tell me who it is and I’ll finish the job.”

Branch shakes his head, snickering. “He isn’t worth the effort. Besides, I’m better at handling myself. You should try it. Practice patience. It’ll do you a world of good.”

“I don’t have the patience to spare to develop patience.”

Branch laughs a little as they glide through a marathon of slow circles, the last bringing Creek’s back to his chest. He captures his hand and leans in to whisper, “Behave yourself and reap the rewards later.”

“Promises, promises, I’ll hold you to that.” Creek gently nudges their cheeks together before letting the next part of the dance put distance between them. “I suspect you’ll be leading in that aspect too?”

“Duh,” Branch chuckles. “I think it should be _your_ legs wrapped around _my_ waist this time.”

“Ohhh,” Creek mocks a shiver, “don’t tempt me with images, your highness.”

Branch spins around and straightens his arm to hold Creek in place as he spins away from him. Then he twirls back into his arms and is dipped down as the music reaches a crescendo and ends. Onlookers applaud as the leads pull their partners back up and a livelier tune begins.

“Ahem, is it my turn to waltz the prince into a stupor?”

“And I shall have my go with the good captain.”

The pair turn to find Lieutenant Guy Diamond and Princess Poppy standing nearby. The second in command, wearing a spiffy blue and silver trimmed sleeveless super tunic, black waistcoat, and black leggings, steps forward to the prince while Poppy curtsies in front of the captain, taking his arm.

She lays her head on his shoulder, smiling sweetly at her brother. “You won’t mind if I steal him away, will you? I’m feeling mischievous enough to make the wooers green with envy.”

“My dear, I’m being blessed to have consecutive waltzes with the prince and now the princess. I shall be the talk of the town!” gloats Creek. He casts a wink at Branch before letting himself be dragged away by the bouncy princess.

Branch smiles after them before turning to find Guy Diamond bowing. “Shall we?” he offers.

“Oh yes, lets.” The prince lets the other being the lead and they take to the dance floor.

With a sweep of his hand, the lieutenant graciously takes the prince’s hand, placing a respectful kiss to the palm and leads them to a space in the crowd.

“You look amazing,” Branch murmurs, laying his arm along Guy Diamond’s and placing the other’s hand to his waist. “I’ve always said blue brings out the color of your eyes.”

Guy Diamond grips him close. “Careful with the flattery, your highness. If not for my loyalty to the crown and my captain, I’ll be forced to steal you away.” He spins the prince and rolls him back. “I doubt Captain Creek will appreciate that.”

“It’ll be his own fault for allowing you the opportunity.”

“And I’ve had plenty, haven’t I?” Guy Diamond balances them close as they take a complicated series of steps that could easily tangle their legs, but they flow through it. “Alas, if you weren’t so blue and gorgeous, I would take up the chance. But as we both know—”

“Orange or any variation of the shade is what you favor.” Branch laughs outright. “There have been plenty of orange trolls. I’ve yet to see you settle.”

The pair synchronize their hands meeting in the middle, coming face to face and pulling away.

 “Ah, but there must be more than the color, your majesty. I desire something beyond the surface.” Guy Diamond’s voice takes a static allure, “Some personality, a dash of humor, and my personal favorite, a submissive, timid nature. Something about taking the dominate role always gets me hot.”

The music shifts to an allemande rhythm as they twist in each other’s arms, bend their knees and rise to roll, landing back to back and then side to side, stepping forward. Their pace slows to the middle of the dancefloor and they find Poppy and Creek dancing delightfully in sync, looking polished and flawless. They look marvelous together.

Guy Diamond’s dark blue eyes sparkle and without warning, he performs an exaggerated move to dip the prince lower to the floor while pressing his face into Branch’s neck. The prince blushes and inwardly groans, already knowing what this will cause.

Creek suddenly appears next to them, face scrunched in a deadly glare. “Do that again,” he growls, sweeping past and waits until the dance brings them near to finish his threat, “and I’ll have your head mounted on my wall!”  

Guy Diamond guides them to the princess and captain to whine in passing, “But he smells so good. Won’t you share?”

“Guy, so help me—” Creek is bound away by Poppy’s enthusiastic frolicking, laughing just as openly as Guy Diamond.

Branch makes the connection right away and sighs. “Why do you two love to rile him up?”

“Because it’s my favorite past time,” Guy Diamond says simply. “He never wears the same scowl twice. I keep a book on each expression.”

As the last melodies blend to a lingering apex, all the couples continue moving all over the ballroom until the last of it pans out to a soft nadir. Guy Diamond kisses Branch’s cheeks and bows. His retreat is immediately intercepted by a large crowd of followers. His shoulders visibly slump in defeat as he’s forced to charm them. He casts a sharp look over his shoulder towards the one responsible and mouths a death threat.

Creek only returns the threat with a glacial determination as he joins Branch’s side. “Serves the philander right.”

“What did you do?” asks Branch.

“Told the whole lot of them that Guy Diamond is seeking a bride.”

“You’re cruel.” Branch just shakes his head. “Where’s Poppy?”

Creek smirks deviously. “Suki cut in,” is all he says.

“You didn’t!” Branch immediately scans the crowd, knowing his sister’s a nervous wreck.

His search is shortened when the largest double doors to the ball chamber noisily part and the late evening humidity fills the room. All spectators gaze upon the spectacle bestowing them in bright lights, trumpets announcing the arrival of highly recognized noble blood and it’s with great, welcoming surprise that Branch sees who has arrived.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. As the Tides Turn Against Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. It's truly appreciated. Please excuse any errors. Now, let the drama begin!

**As the Tides Turn Against Us**

The pair of guests stepped into the herald’s grand announcement, “King Moss and Prince Aspen of Jane Magnolia Vale,” as they paced down the unraveling red carpet, sprinkled along with dashes of white rose petals.

The one clearly known as King Moss, coolly walks the aisle with his chin held up, hands clasp loosely behind his back, nodding and surveying minutely at any and everyone’s captured rapture. A flick of his wrist and the banners, the gathered flower knots and streamers morph from their summary array of blues, whites and silvers colors, to pale roses, deep pink narcissism, lavender lilies and a variety of jane magnolias. The curtains and drapery flutter and shimmer, draining of their earlier teal and sterling to ivory, a creamy mauve and dazzling iridescent. Even the tablecloths darken to purple.

The sudden change in décor is a marvel and the resounding awe in change and the magic used to make it be, bring a delighted sound to his lips.     

The dulling colors kindly complemented King Moss’s ceremonial uniform; burnishing lilac to gray to silver on a military waistcoat with a draping silver robe that make his green eyes shine an unearthly glow. They were tight and short enough to keep from tripping over and spread around his feet to fluently trail in an unseen wind. Branch could see the soft shine of loosely cast spells effecting the edges of the king’s clothing with dark speckling lavender and white glimmers. He handles it with a grace that rivals even his father, but it’s to be understood.

King Moss and King Sage are brothers after all.

However, bloodline is all they share.

They couldn’t have been more different then the shades of their eyes and hue of their hair. King Moss’s hair is the darkest flaxen yellow as to almost appear spun of real gold. His skin tone is a deeper, brighter color blue than King Sage. If to compare the two, Sage would be the teal that foams and crests from an ocean wave, while Moss is the sun’s piercing sapphire gleam that reflects in the depths of that same ocean.  

The one following behind his majesty shrouds themselves in a shadowy magenta cloak and cowl, keeping close to his side and their head bowed from view. Branch remembers having a cousin from years ago, but the memories are vague, somewhat lost to age and other priorities. They’ve met twice as children during his family’s brief visits to their sister kingdom, Jane Magnolia Vale. It’s been thirteen years since he’s lain eyes on his foreign family, but time’s been kind to his uncle. He wears his age well, barely looking like a king prepared to retire, but more like a proud and noble lord far from feeling outclassed by the youth.

When the carpet continues being unrolled by, King Moss eases to a standstill before Branch, and smiles, nodding once. “Nephew,” he greets, eyes hanging low and shining with inquiring inspection. In one sweep, his smile broadens. “You’ve grown finely.”

Branch sweeps an arm across his chest and takes a small bow. “Thank you, King Moss.”

A soft laughter replies. “I see my brother’s still a stickler for formalities. I’m not as uptight, child. Uncle will do just fine.”

“Yes Uncle.” Branch rises and beams with a nostalgic happiness. “I’m glad to see you again.”

“As I sure you would be. I look forward to enjoying my holiday here. I can’t remember the last time I’ve stepped foot in my old castle pod.” More chortles shake his shoulders. “Anyway, gather your sister. I prefer we do our reminiscing at once. I never liked repeating myself.”

“Yes sir.” Branch casts a short, curious glance at the figure standing close to his uncle before he disappears in the crowd in search of Poppy.

The people gawked, and were certainly gossiping if the muted murmurs and hum of busy voices are any indication. There definitely isn’t a lack of admiration. Twice now, King Moss tests the audience’s actual interest in him by kindly smiling and each time he receives demurring starts and coy glances. The braver ones were deliberately trying to avoid outright staring, but even their inquisitive nature gets the better of them and they indulge in a peek or two. King Moss doesn’t blame them.

Nourish your meddling or it’ll get the better of you and make you twice as likely to be a bumbler.

As the last of calculative glances complete, King Moss finally focuses his intense gaze on the only troll that mattered in the whole ball room.

“Well, well, well Sage, it has been a while,” Moss says and climbs the small staircase until he’s brought face to face to his sibling.

Sage stiffly stands. “It has.” He cups his hands behind his back, uplifting his chin. “Did the colors offend you?”

“Not at all. I thought a bit of a rebellious flare would liven up the mood. The décor’s got a sort of cadaverous feel to it. I thought we’d stumbled upon someone’s funeral. Shall I change them back?”

“I would prefer you did.”

 “So be it.” A small roll of his wrist and all the coloration reverts without the slightest disruption. Moss inclines his head to the younger king once. “There now, back to its dreary state.”

“They’re _traditional_ crest colors.”

“Oh, I know that. I taught you the meaning behind each one. It never hurts to stray away from praxis.” Moss checks the back of his hand, then meets his brother’s gaze. “So, from I what recall from your letters, I thought the stresses of reigning over a kingdom would have left you a weathered ruin. But you’re still looking fair in health and appearance.”

King Sage smiles slightly. “As are you, brother.” He holds out a hand for the queen to grasp and tenderly brings her forward. “You remember my wife, Calla.”

Calla lifts her gown and nods her head. “King Sage, a pleasure.”

“ _Yes_ , I do remember her.” The same scrutiny used to examine his nephew, scans over his sister-in-law. Only, he’s far from impressed and doesn’t hide it. He blinks once, and marginally upturns his nose. “Carla, is it?”

“Calla, sire,” she calmly corrects.

“Ah, so it is,” he dismisses with a wave of his hand, voice tempered with boredom. “Where are the children? I’d thought you’d have them ready to properly greet me, brother.”

Queen Calla politely steps back to her throne, suppressing a massive struggle to not clench her fingers.

Sage’s mouth tightens. “They’re around. But please, do be seated. You two must be weary from your journey.”

“We are, but rest can wait. I want Branch and Poppy to meet their cousin. Their reunion is long overdue, don’t you agree?”

“Yes.” Sage swings his cope behind him and starts down the stairs. “I’ll fetch them for you.” 

A heavy clap to his shoulder halts him on the same stair as his brother. The same hand lowers to catch his wrist, index finger rubbing long the younger king’s throbbing pulse line. “That dolman looks fetching on you, brother,” says Moss, confidentially near his ear. “You should wear them more.”

Sage slightly shifts his head to face his brother’s profile. He gives a blunt nod in acceptance of the compliment, tugging at his hand and treks onward when he’s freed. It’s with great timing Sage doesn’t have to venture far. By the time he reaches the last stair, he sees Branch and Poppy stringing through the throng of citizens, whom have all returned to their previous revelry.

“Shape up, Branch,” Sage hisses at his son upon the prince coming within earshot. “Straighten your sash. How many times have I said to stand straight? Keep your hands at your side and for heaven’s sake, stop fidgeting—!”

“Father please!” Branch breathes in and slowly exhales, flexing his hands open and close. “I know how to conduct myself. Can we go? We’re keeping Uncle,” his father’s hardened stare, Branch clears his throat, “King Moss. We’re meeting King Moss waiting. That’s just as rude, isn’t it?”

“Hmph, indeed.” Sage spares his daughter a small look over. “Poppy, smooth the wrinkle from your dress, dear.”

“Yes Father.”

Sage leads his children up the stairs, unheeded to the grouchy expressions his son makes behind his head. Poppy accidentally lets out a chuckle out and at the sharpest, reprimanding glare from their father, his children erect an air of innocence.  King Sage steps to the side for his children to pass. He stalls by the rail and discreetly motions for a servant to come forward.

“Yes milord?”

Sage lowers his voice. “Have Captain Creek secure a perimeter check around the estate, but he is not to be late for the feast.”

The servant steeply bows. “I shall tell him right away, sire.” The young male hurries away to do the king’s bidding.

Sage reaches the top of the stairs to find his daughter swept into a loving embrace by his brother.

“Oh, my beloved, niece!” Moss laughs, suspending her high with his hair and hands. “You were but a wee toddler when I last saw you. Now look at you. Darling, you are truly a sight to behold—beauty personified.”  

Poppy peals joyfully as she spreads her arms in illustrated flight. As she’s brought down, she lands with her arms around his shoulders, and kisses his cheek. “Oh, Uncle, you flatterer. I remember how much I loved when you would hoist me high. I’ve missed you so!”

“And I you, dear.”

“How do you like the décor, Uncle? Superb coloring, yes?”

“You. . . you handled interior decorating?” At her illustrious nod, Moss shifts his weight heavily to the left and right, pressing his hand to his forehead. “My poor, child. So benighted in the ways of bedizenment. This handicap _is certainly not_ a trait inherited from our side of the family.” Moss mournfully clucks his tongue. “Before I take my leave, I’ll be sure to fully educate you in the ways of really breathing life into a party.”

Poppy gleefully smiles with worlds of anticipation in her eyes. “Nothing would make me happier!”

“I want to share all my knowledge with you. With both of you.” He reaches for Branch, tugging the two together to look at as one. “My word, the years have flown so fast. You’re both so—so breathtaking. It’s hard to believe my salty brother had a hand in making you.”

The prince and princess share flustered smiles, each covering both their hands over their uncle’s.

Sage loudly coughs to gain their attention. “Moss, weren’t you going to introduce us to your son?”

“Quite right.” Moss kisses his niece and nephew’s palms before reaching behind to beckon his son forward. His expression’s proud and seems sultrily pleased. “Come, Aspen. Meet your cousins.”

Even covered from head to toe, the adopted roll in his cousin’s stride can’t disguise his refined posture. Branch straightens out of habit, subconsciously mirroring his father’s stance. As the cloaked prince nears, he halts in the center of the royal family and slowly pulls back his hood, allowing a glow to creep out.

Branch bears the shine until it dims and represses the urge to rub his eyes because his father would find it uncouth and ill-mannered, but he will likely find it equally rude for his son to openly stare. He’s never seen a troll with skin such a vivid honey orange color and hair sprouting all shades of the brightest spring green. The constant transfers between lime, shamrock and emerald green can easily be deduced as a spell. Yet the effects extol his features well.

Aspen wiggles his pink nose and the shine completely dissipates. “Sorry about that,” he says, voice a musical, monotone. “I’m like my father in the sense I enjoy drawing attention to myself.”

“Bite your tongue, boy, I’m as humble as they come.”

“Says you,” Aspen teases. He rears up and comes forward, taking a low kneel before King Sage and Queen Calla. “My beloved Uncle Sage, Aunt Calla, I am Prince Aspen.” He lifts his head, flashing the most charming smile. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, well, again.”

Queen Calla giggles and offers her hand. “Charmed, it is an honor to meet you again too, Aspen.” He takes her palm, kissing it.

Then he faces King Sage, reflexively adopting a sterner, serious demeanor. “King Sage,” he says.

“Prince Aspen, rise.” He does, all smiles and confidence. King Sage circles the young prince once, nodding approvingly. “It has been a time since I’ve lain eyes on you. You’ve grown into a very fine soldier. I hear you’ll rise to a major soon?”

“Should the opportunity rise, I intend to.”

“Hmm, a ripe demeanor.” Sage finishes his inspection before the young prince and nods again. He then flicks his wrist once towards his children, summoning them closer. “You probably don’t have vivid memories of your cousins. You were all babes and tots when you played. My eldest, Prince Branch and my younger child, Princess Poppy.”

Aspen laughs. “Yes, my dear cousins. Visions of our playtimes are faint, but I recollect a few mischievous adventures. Branch,” he addresses fondly, “you and I will discuss those in private. I dare say we aren’t ready to incur our fathers’ wrath should they learn of some of the tricks we were responsible for.”

Branch smiles and spreads his hands. “Please do. I want to hear all about them.”

“Surely you remember _some_?”

“Afraid not. My mind’s as feeble as an old man, what with all the chores of being a prince.”

“Hmm,” Aspen shrugs, bemused nonetheless. He faces Poppy, a gentler composition filling his gaze. “You were so tiny when I last saw you. I’m saddened my only memories of you are sitting in your parents’ laps.”

“We’ll be able to make more,” Poppy cheerfully vows.

“Indeed, we will.”

Suddenly the great ballroom becomes saturated with the first notes of a melody trill from the Amati, guitar and grand piano. The Waltz of Neptune and Saturn, named from the story of two powerful goddesses who were portrayed as cousins to the public, but secretly carried on an affair. It’s a fast, overly lively dance with a constant change in lead. Branch’s face visibly brightens at the tune, against his better training, and it doesn’t go unseen by Aspen.

He fully drops his cloak, revealing an exquisite dark indigo frock coat, reflective of a captain in the military. Half a dozen medals and ribbons marring the white sash that crossed from the right to the right, including gold and silver chains.

“Favor a dance with me, Branch?” Aspen asks, casting a glance at the dancefloor and cheekily adds, “Preferably before there’s a lack of space to find.”

“With pleasure,” Branch accepts the hand and together, the princes’ march down the stairwell, having little trouble in merging into place as the masses part a path for them.

Moss tuts a noise in his mouth. “Can’t allow our sons to have all the fun. I remember you being quite the dancer in our youth.” He suddenly thrusts his hand out towards his younger brother, a daring glint in his eyes. “Care to prove you still are?”

Sage’s mouth moved into a sharp smile without his permission. “Excuse me, darling,” he murmurs to his wife, never breaking eye contact with his brother, “there’s a small case of ignorance to cure.” And then he takes Sage’s arm and leads them down the stairs to the dance floor.

Unbeknownst to Sage’s usual keen eye, Moss coolly spears an icy fix on the queen, and keeps it there. Queen Calla redirects her attention to Poppy to avoid encouraging the stare down. Sage smirks. Satisfied, he returns to looking ahead and keeps his hold on the younger king firm and secure.

The third security marker is found clear and so is the fourth and fifth. Nothing to report.

Creek nods gratefully to the soldiers stationed at the Southern end of the castle pod as he continues his trek along the perimeter. He hopes to finish before the scheduled feast. He has no desire to doddle outside when he could be enjoying the festivities indoors. And with his second-in-command taking care of the other half of the surveillance check, they’re bound to be finished in record time.

It’s a humid evening; terrible conditions for his uniform. Moisture’s already perspired over his medals and he’d only polished them for two hours before the celebration started. Now they’ll have water marks and ashen. Why his highness felt the need to suddenly demand a security check is beyond Creek’s understanding. He always seems to want them done at the most inconvenient times. And Creek’s not certain what to even search for anymore.

Their kingdom hasn’t faced any real threats in two hundred years. But that’s their king, always overly prepared, overly paranoid, overly protective. Creek smiles a little. He’s seen that part especially evident in Branch; the ever-readied warrior, always on top of planning and organization. Creek longs to plan a raunchy night of mating beneath the prince’s sheets, but there’s no telling how much longer this soiree will last. The king once held a party that lasted over a week and not even the soldiers were up to spit for spar practice. Creek only remembers half of what happened that week, thanks to being so slushed with bottles of birch beer.

Speaking of which, he could go for a cool mug of it now.

“Blast, where is that gemmy slacker?” Creek grumbles to himself, swinging aimlessly with the stick he acquired along his trek around the castle pod. “One job he has—one simple job, and he somehow manages to take forever to execute it—”

“Creek, Captain Creek, you must come see!”

Creek’s body takes over, instinctively brandishing his sword, sweeping a defensive spell along the blade in the same motion as he takes a stance, scanning around for the coming enemy. Except he only sees Guy Diamond giving him the most peculiar blinks and an even odder arch in his eyebrows at his leader’s sword.

Then it dawns on the silver troll and he laughs. “Oh! Sorry, I guess I did sound troubled, didn’t I? You can put away your sword. There’s no danger.”

Creek doesn’t sheath his sword right away. “I’m still tempted to use it anyway, idiot. You gave me a fright.” He withdraws, shaking his head. “What has you so worked up?”

“Come see.” Guy Diamond pivots on his heel, dashing off in the direction he came.

Creek shrugs before pursuing after him.

It could be anything. Guy Diamond’s has the mindset of a child lost in a valley of toys, he’s so easily amused.

Creek doesn’t prepare himself for anything extravagant when he finds his friend peering through the high rising window of the castle pod. Or he probably should since it wouldn’t make sense for Guy Diamond to yearn to be inside the ballroom when he can easily finish their task and they be on their way in.

And then there’s the completely out of character, goofy grin on his face that’s something to ponder.

“Alright there?”

Guy Diamond sighs dreamily, crossing his elbows on the window sill. “Oh, I will be. I really will be when we get back inside.”

“Why is that?”

“Have a gander, Captain,” Guy Diamond exaggeratedly purrs, the tenor a sinister vibration in Creek’s side. “I dare not tear my eyes away and risk losing sight of that bewitching creature.”

Now Creek’s intrigued. He joins the other by the window, scanning the horde of dancers and onlookers, only keeping a lookout for attractive tangerines. He’ll never, ever, ever understand the appeal. Orange trolls are so bright and flamboyant and from what he’s heard, extremely despotic in the bedroom—

Creek’s eyes threaten to fall out of his skull. “Who the devil is that with his arms all over my Branch?!”

“Someone I’m dying to have _my arms_ all over.”

“Oh, you’ll get your wish this evening. Let’s go!”

“Go?” Guy Diamond jerks away from the window. “But we haven’t finished our perimeter check?”

“Our perimeter—for heaven’s sake.” Creek wipes a hand over his face. “Guy, I almost cursed at you. If you don’t bring your glittery self on this instant!” He turns with a whip of his cape, aiming for the closest entrance to the ballroom.

“But-but-but.” Guy Diamond scrambles frantically to cut off his captain. “Normally I encourage your angry outbursts, but I think it’ll be inappropriate. I believe that troll Branch is dancing with is someone important.”

“ _I’m_ someone important or he’ll soon learn that I am, now move!” Creek shoves him aside.

Guy Diamond steps in the way again. “No, I mean really important. Like royal important, sir.”

Creek narrows his eyes. “You’ve clearly mistaken me for someone who cares.”

“Have you gone mental? _Are_ you going mental? Please warn me now. I don’t do well in hospital settings.”

Creek makes a disgusted noise under his breath. “If you don’t respect my undying love for Branch, then say that instead of questioning my insanity.

“I’m acting like you’ve become mental because of your actions,” says Guy Diamond, cocking his head and a sharp-edged smile flashes. “Or perhaps you’re sick. It is warmer than usual out here.” And he steps up to press his hand on Creek’s forehead, spreads wide as if to check for ever.

“Dolt.” Creek flushes, and swats the hand away.

“In any case sir, I strongly protest against you acting rashly. If you weren’t so Hellbent on exacting bodily harm, you’d notice they bear the same crest on their backs as our king.”

Creek feels his mouth sag slightly open. “A family member?”

“Possibly, yes.”

“Oh.” A pause, then. “Well, that’s quite alright, isn’t it?”

“Yes sir.”

“Still.” Creek looks through another window, and his face adores the glare again. “He’s dancing awfully close. Their thighs are touching. Don’t you think their stomachs are too? That’s much too intimate for platonic behavior.”

Guy Diamond rolls his eyes. “We’ve danced like that!”

“Blame it on the alcohol. We were too drunk to know any better.”

“. . . Touché.” A long-winded sigh blows from Guy Diamond like a punctured balloon. “Fine, let’s investigated. Besides, I’m curious to learn more about this fellow.”

Creek lowers from his perch, flashing a smile. “That’s the spirit!”

Although, this sort of dance sequence is befitting a restrained version of the Summer Dip Flutter, Aspen lead the beginning steps with the deliberate intent to advance to it’s more complicated version; one that doesn’t differently extremely from the original, but involves a great deal effort from both partners. Branch steps lightly in accordance to the first part to properly gauge how much he should perform in the beginning so he can get in sync.

It’s done flawlessly and Aspen flashes him an expression that has plenty of admiration and appreciation for Branch’s strategic blend into the motion. The orange prince twists to the side the moment he takes Branch’s hand, lowering his hand to grasp his side and Branch spins half way to bring them in a slanted parallel.

“I thought when I saw you next, there’d be a notable change in your height,” Aspen remarks, rearranging their stance and pulls Branch close. “Now I see there’s more growth in your hair than anything else.”

Then Branch whirls to the right, taking Aspen with him, neither missing a beat. And it comes time for him to readjust their hands and he brings Aspen’s hand high, and out. “A jester, I like that. Laughing’s one of my favorite hobbies.”  They go a complete circle, a lowering in their knees, then Branch snatches Aspen to him and lowers him so the tips of his hair graze the floor.  “Keep it up and I’ll see us fast friends yet.”

“I’d prefer a brotherly connection. Makes the bond more meaningful.” Aspen’s body anticipates the coming lift and backwards stride and the coming twirl he needs to take to change their leads. Branch leans into his weight when he’s meant too, assuming the slighter position and allows himself to be slowly spun and his back to be brought to Aspen’s chest and they arch as one to the right. “Or I propose another choice?” comes the sensuous suggestion and humid blow in Branch’s ear. Aspen chuckles at the seeable tingle in Branch’s frame. “A secret _affaire_ during my stay?

“A casual mating?”

“Why not? Frankly, I’m not opposed to the idea. You’re certainly handsome enough.”

“Ah,” Branch lowers his eyes, and his voice. “You’ve only reacquainted with me a few moments and you’re already sure I’m impressive in bed?”

Aspen steepens their arch and the bend nearly places them both in a tangled mold. “My instincts have never failed to sense potential in my bedmates. And my mouth has become parch since we arrived. I can taste the strength in your magic, smell its potency.”

“You’re attracted to power?”

“Among other things. . .”

Branch feels prickles of a warming breeze run up both his arms and the plane of his chest, then the sensation slips beneath his skin in palpitation layers. Aspen’s magic, its caressing pressure, kindly and fervidly smooths all over the blue prince’s body. Yet, there’s almost nothing private about the way Branch’s eyes flutter and the flush in his cheeks. Nor of Aspen’s tongue lazily slickening his lips.

No part of the dance cycle calls for the prolonged way their bodies stayed curled, Aspen’s thigh cushioning Branch’s upper torso. Or how Aspen’s fingers crawl like spider legs up the length of Branch’s arm and crushes the awaiting blue fingers in a manner meant to be as powerful a grasp as a dominate does their submissive in bed. Onlookers would think they were fondly ensnared in a lovers’ leer.

“Your answer?” Aspen murmurs and uses his arm to cradle the back of Branch’s neck. The new position forces Branch to relinquish his hold on the hand he’d been holding to lay it on Aspen’s shoulder. “Say yes, we can leave now. Say no, we can work on that brotherly connection.”

A sigh, one that often rivals the kind he permits whenever negatively confronted by his father, leaves Branch’s lips. How easy would it be to become lost in intimacy with a troll like Aspen? Perhaps circumstances with him aren’t as dire, but Branch would not dare.

He smiles softly, sliding his hand to curve under Aspen’s jaw and he strokes it while speaking, “I must respectfully decline your offer. My heart is too stubbornly enraptured by another for me to fathom the thought of sharing your bed.”

“I gathered as much. Your magic barely answered my calling. Alas, I’ve been rejected. That’s a flavor so rare, the taste soils my tongue.” Aspen brings them upright, the last of the bars from the music dragging its longest adagio to a close. “And there’s no chance of tempting you _and_ your partner into my bedroom?”

Branch chokes back a bubble of laughter. “You’re insatiable!” He squeezes their hands. “But I do have a handsome friend you may find just as appealing. He’s attracted to tangerines like you would never believe.”

“Handsome you say?” Aspen makes show of stroking his chin in thought. “Tempting. Very well, make it so, cousin.”

The two playfully rock their clasped hands and only break away to applaud the orchestra’s performance.

“I only ask you look beyond looks,” Branch whispers, taking Aspen’s attention from the conductor’s speech of appreciation. “There’s more to him then a rut between the sheets.”

Aspen frowns a little. “I never came here looking for a permanent partner, Branch. I’ve got years yet before I’m ready to marry.”

“You never know. Love can strike at the most random instant.”

“Sort of like you and your beau?”

“Yes,” Branch could hear the sooth in his own voice. “I’ll never want anyone else.”

Aspen thinks a moment, then a small smile appears. “I have no misconceptions for a happily ever after. Our family’s never been fortunate in that realm. Or rather, will we ever.”

Branch had already prepared himself to counter whatever argument Aspen would say, but they weren’t appropriate for that statement. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you know?” Aspen slowly faces him. “Branch. . . there’s never been a troll in our entire lineage that’s married for love because love isn’t something we can ever achieve.”

“Why? But that doesn’t make. . .” Branch’s lips press in a tightened line. “You speak in riddles. I know I love him.” He lays a hand over his chest, feeling the increase throb like it wants to plow through his ribs. “He influences me for the better. He’s the object of my desires, all I could dream for. Why would you say something that powerful is impossible to have?”

“I’m surprised and ashamed you aren’t well versed in our family’s history.” Aspen considers his hand as a sterling glow etches old passages like lightning up his sleeve and in the divots of his palm. “It’s why we are able to conjure magic.” Then he holds out his hand, revealing runes of instinctive protection, strength, and defense. “Our great-great-great grandmother Primrose. . . she chose to forsake our family’s ability to ever fall in love to protect us.”

“From what?” Branch finds it so much harder to breathe now.

Aspen chuckles bitterly as he wrings away his magic’s embers. “I never learned why. Those parts were intentionally burned from the scrolls. I just know that the strength of our magic comes from her greatest sacrifice. . . to never marry for love or be able to bask in its beauty.” He looks upon his younger cousin’s crumbling expression and shakes his head. “If you’re somehow exempt from the rule, Branch, I would be glad. You’re only half-blood after all. Maybe the rules don’t befall those like you and Poppy.”

“I don’t. . . no.” Branch brings his hands to hug his torso, starring narrowly at a corner. “I don’t think they do. They shouldn’t. We’ve been together five years. If it weren’t meant to be, fate wouldn’t be so cruel to bring us together.”

“You can frolic in mating and happiness as you please, but marriage is out of the question.”

“How would you—”

Aspen pats his shoulder and nods towards the center of the dance floor. Branch trembles, but he seems to calm down once another objective gains his attention.

His father stands before their subjects, arms raised high and the silence sweeping over them with practiced respect. Under the lash of his magic’s pressure bursting throughout the whole chamber, Branch erects himself straighter. Similar effects take place in Aspen, who brings his hands to curl behind his back and his chest puffs out, all for the shuddering respect of a stronger magical force.

“My good subjects,” King Sage begins, in a booming tone breaming with absolute authority, “it gives me immense pleasure to have you all gathered here for this joyous occasion. Of course, the reasons behind the principle of the celebration were kept silent until now.” Sage angles himself to hold out his hand for Moss to grasp and pulls him to his side. “My brother, King Moss and his son, Prince Aspen, have graced us with their presence this evening, hailing far from our sister kingdom, Jane Magnolia Vale. This celebration would not be complete without their company for you see, they are only half of the main announcement.”

King Sage nods to his brother and moves to let him step forward. He moves to lift his hand, but Moss doesn’t let go. He braids their fingers tight, rising the other to address the awaiting citizens, soldiers, servants and other witnesses.

“Years ago, my brother and I,” he softly directs, looking to Sage, and raises his voice to the crowd, “have come to terms with how we’ve governed our lands. At one time, trolls were not divided. We had once been a united nation; a mighty dynamic that knew no greater opposition that could threaten our tenacity. And it is with this arrogant knowledge that our forefathers took great cogitation to spread that power throughout the world. We stand eight kingdoms strong, myself and Sage’s rules being the most magically endowed.” His grip fastens harder, unseen, possessive. “We are two halves of the same coin, day’s night and night’s day, the sun’s shine to the moon’s glow. And it is because of this, that we have decided to reconcile our kingdoms to its original span and restore the bond,” Moss draws his arm around Sage’s shoulders and brings him flush to his side, “which is long overdue.”

Foreboding lingers in the back of Sage’s thoughts, nestled alongside a numbness and regret, but such thoughts are small and don’t distract from his main contemplation: that the decisions he’s main from thirteen years ago were made on behave for all he holds dear, not to quail old fears and guilt and misdeeds. He rears up, releasing his pent-up breath he hadn’t known he was holding in the same moment, and slightly extracts his hand from his brother’s grasp to extend it.

“Prince Aspen, Prince Branch, please come here,” he orders. The boys respond immediately, coming forward to lay their hands in his, Branch politely recognizing his lesser role to Aspen’s pure blood status by placing his there first and Aspen laying his on top. Moss lays the other on top, closing his eyes. “You two shall be the mold necessary to conjoin our kingdoms.”

Branch’s head snaps upright, startled. “I—”

“—Through the power invested in me and King Moss as reigning sovereigns, by decree—”

“No—” Branch pulls helplessly at his hand. “Father, you can’t—”

“Prince Aspen shall have Prince Branch’s hand in marriage come the spring of his twenty second birthday!”

“No!” Branch cries out, damning to Hell all etiquette, all expectations, all demands of proper behavior. He snatches his hand away, defiantly glaring at his father. “I will not!”

King Sage grabs his son’s arm and jerks so close, his imminent demand for cooperation is enforced through sheer willpower. Branch glowers with equal mutiny. “It is so ordered,” he sneers, grip clutching like a vise.

Branch snatches at the hold angrily, but a shake weakens his resolve. “It is. So. Ordered,” comes the king’s stronger command.

Bottom lip quivering, Branch stubbornly looks away, fighting uselessly at the stream of tears blurring his gaze. “. . . So, it shall be obeyed.” He whips a fiery gaze towards his father and violently whispers, “How could you do this?”

“Endure it,” King Sage whispers back just as heated. His fingers constrict, nails cutting through his son’s sleeve. The young prince’s wince barely register’s that the grip may be too hard. “These are the trials of becoming a king.”

Their subjects, oblivious to the turmoil between father and son, loudly laud and shout cheers for the coming reunion between kingdoms.  

Creek’s fingers bleed through his clenched fingers. The lurch of sickness pressing into the lowest parts of his belly were unlike anything he’s ever experienced in his entire life. He hadn’t opened the doors to the ballroom, merely stalling out to avoid disrupting the announcement.

He needn’t have entered anyway to hear the most devastating news. It could have come as a whisper, thousands of miles away and have the same crushing blow. Magic rushed through his veins, threatening to boil his blood, to chill his airway.

He feels numb.

Hot. Cold. Lost.

“What,” he swallows thickly, “what did the king just say?”

Guy Diamond, expression as aghast, nervously glances sideways at his commander. “He said. . . he said that they are. . . engaged.”

“Right. . . t-that’s what I thought.”

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Repercussions to Our Confusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter everyone! Thanks very much for reading. Please excuse any mistakes. I'll try to fix them later.

**Repercussions to Our Confusion**

Branch hurries down the corridor, stride rigid and steadfast. The scowl etched in his brow made any bypassing servant quickly step out of his path; a couple even braced themselves flat to the wall as if steering clear were their only choice or risking death if sighted within the prince’s vicinity. Not that seeing them could deter him from his directive anyway. He had a place he needed to be and if he didn’t reach it soon, he couldn’t guarantee parts of the castle pod wouldn’t be destroyed.

His body is infested with spasming energy and he needed to release it before he committed something unforgivable.

The door to his bed chamber is slapped away with a thought and it’s slammed the same way. Branch waves his right hand, erecting thick wards, soundproofing every slither of space and crevice that let air out. With his left, he sweeps it in an open palm sweep, pushing the furniture, desk, canopy bed, bassinet, wardrobe, all of it is layered and cushioned with wards. All around him, the change leaves him in a circular space; enough room to spread his arms, jump, run, anything. He will need it.

Slowly, he sheds his uniform coat and slips out of his pants, flinging them away so he’s only clothed in a loose tunic and a thin linen undergarment.

The walls groaned, the floors creaked as the force of his magic spilled in waves.

Then Branch whirls and lashes out.

Magic cries around himself, surging from his core in the ward’s boundaries, ricocheting as stray lightning would off solid ground. Streams travel up his arms through the end of his fingertips, magnetically reversing as streams of sparkling flashes, which crackled and beat the wards, the walls, the floors. Branch steps in spins and wide twirls, catching it between his palms upon hearing it’s resounding tocsin and slings it away. Power trails him, vibrating as violet shadow as his movements quickened, the graceful and strong flow of his arms and legs become smoother.

Branch concentrates on a plain section of his room, imagines it as the embodiment of all his rage, and sees his father. He stretches his palms forward, overlapping his right palm over his left. Channeling a bundle of magic into a compressed orb, it’s hurled with immense force and the wall explodes. Or would have. Branch knows himself better than anyone. Had he not prepared for this, every portion of his bedroom would be charred.

The thick coruscating ashes dissolve in dripples around him and they evaporate before they touch the floor. Branch rears his fists up and mindlessly screams. He hears the sound and puts it in the back of his mind, just like he did when he unleased the magic or at the glittering lights around him. There’s so much rage, _so much_ of it, and he _has_ to get it _out_.

All his life, all he’s ever done is listen, obey, follow and go through. He would protest, he would argue, but in the end, Branch always did what his father wants. He takes everything away, especially Branch’s sense of control. King Sage wants to oversee every aspect of Branch’s life, but now it extends to who he is to spend his life with. Who is he to make such a decision? What gives him the right? Traditions, customs and cultural beliefs be damned.

Branch wasn’t going to take it!

Branch flings streaks of jagged magic as the shatters of despair, anger, pride and anxiety leave him empty. A peace, cold and vacant, envelopes him and he crumbles to the floor, breathing in rushed pants. Then colors, lavender and lime and turquoise, suddenly steal his vision and Branch smiles through bloodied lips.

Even if his fit is now sated, his temper lessened, he feels inclined to worry over someone else who’s likely hurting as much as he is. Creek’s no doubt left the estate to get rid of his stress in the same manner Branch has. They’d both developed this method of stress relief together, but always did it separately. There will have been some severe arguments that left them both reeling with bottled up animosity and they had to get it out or risk saying things to one other they couldn’t take back.

The results always gave them a better understanding to the situation and a chance to speak about it and apologize.

By tomorrow, when all the anger’s been dissolved and their minds clear to reason, they’ll discuss what’s happened. Branch rises to his feet, wincing as some arms and hands burned. He likely scorched them in his haste summon the magic without properly lathering himself in oils. Such is the price of being born a half blood magical troll. His mother’s family didn’t have a trace of it, so all it came from his father. Figures it would torment him the same as his sire.

_‘Does he hate me so much that my happiness means nothing to him?’_

_‘Is it because I am what I am that I can never live up to his expectations?’_

_‘Perhaps, I’m not enough of a son for him to consider my feelings.’_

Branch marginally shakes his head as he absently flexes his fingers to break the wards apart. These questions and worries have always lingered like bubbles floating before bursting. He would almost, almost believe he didn’t love his father at all, if not for the few times he’d received praise from the king and they would mean the world to Branch. Words shouldn’t hold so much power over someone, but they did when it came from that troll.

Branch gingerly stripes away the rest of his tattered clothing and enters his bath chambers. Servants have adjoining entrances to each royal troll’s bathroom so they won’t have to cross through and disturb them. When he enters, three female servants holding towels, lotions and wash oils, are patiently waiting for him next to the large sunken marble bath.

The water funnels through a reservoir used to collect rain through a cistern and fills through metal pipes that also fuel the flames used to heat the marble stones. All the royal baths were fired by the same large furnace, but could be turned on or off to reserve the power. It can be filled and emptied of water at the most convenient times of the day for the servants assigned to this daily task.

The women, wearing only sheer robes, step forward as Branch lowers himself into the water.

“Leave me,” he softly orders and sinks to completely drench himself.

The servants do without a sound, leaving behind the items he’d need. When the door closes, Branch wanes to the edge and folds his arms over the edge of the bath, staring at the wispy steam and broods. He wishes Creek were here now. Being near him would sooth Branch’s troubles away the way the warm waters have the tender burns along his hands and arms. They’ll heal without a scar. Magically burns always do when self-inflicted.

Branch closes his eyes, thoughts straying to his last moments in Creek’s arms. He longs for him, wants so much to kiss and hold and wither in his grasp. Or he could be the one with a weakened Creek begging in his ear to do with him as he pleases, and his echoing cries of ecstasy while succumbing to Branch’s driving thrusts. The pain to mate coils heatedly and pulses between Branch’s thighs and he sighs, reaching beneath the water to lazily stroke himself. It won’t be enough to make him climax, but the touch is relaxing.

Gentle knocks from his bedroom door, disturb his concentration. Branch lists his head to the side, smiling a little. “Come in, Poppy.”

The princess does, her formal evening wear gone. She looks younger without the makeup, almost like a timid, innocent flower easily swayed over by the slightest breeze. She closest the door behind her, eyes down on the floor as she holds the knob with one hand and clasps the front of her robe with the other. Poppy shyly peers at him through her long lashes, feet shuffling.

“May I join you? I . . . I didn’t think you should be alone after. . .” Poppy quietens, eyes closing.

Branch sighs, and nods. He looks away as she disrobes and until she lowers himself in. Water laps at Branch’s side as Poppy eases next to him and folds her arms over the edge. Together, they stare at the same empty span of fog.

“Mother’s angry with father.”

Branch makes a noise.

“She made sure he knew it too,” Poppy goes on to say. “When you left, she dismissed herself from the ballroom for the rest of the evening. The ball didn’t last long afterwards. Aspen asked about you,” she adds and saddens. “He’s just as surprised as you.”

“I doubt that,” Branch mumbles. “He made it clear while we danced where his interests lie.”

“How do you mean?”

Branch cuts his eyes at her a moment. “He propositioned me into having an affaire that’d last as long as his stay here.”

“Oh.” Poppy’s mouth thins. “Perhaps he still didn’t know.”

“He knew. Why else would he ask to mate so callously?”

“Aspen’s a bit,” Poppy tuts his lips, tapping her chin, “flirtatious.”

Branch barks a short laugh. “That’s putting it mildly.”

“Don’t be so quick to judge. We don’t know much about him. It’s not like he made Father do this.”

Branch’s harshness sobers. His sister’s right. Branch is allowing his dislike towards the situation cloud his reasoning. Aspen may be as much of victim to this arrangement as he is. His cousin just may have handled the announcement better because nothing in his expression read disbelief, or disappointment. There was only the slightest thinning in his lips and a bowed head, but nothing more to display his real feelings on the matter.

Branch pushes away from the edge and sinks up to his nose in the water. Poppy looks over her shoulder at him, sadly. “I’m scared, Branch. Father’s stolen your chance at love, will he do the same to me?”

He says nothing, looking away from her face. She whimpers and buries her face into her arms. Branch lets her sorrow until her sobs break his hardened resolve and he nears to embrace her from behind. Laying his head on her shoulder, he lets his sister weep and in a way, she’s crying for the both of them.

Branch feels stuck in a limbo he can’t escape. No doubt it’s a fate Poppy will share and her destiny will be much direr. . .

 

In the earliest morning hours, Creek inwardly struggled. He tossed and turned and lied awake staring at the canopy and studying it until drowsiness evaded him all together. His sleep was lack and short. In the small dreams he had, they were filled with heartache and despair. Branch is out of reach, being embraced by that Prince Aspen and he looks at him with a love that’s even greater then what he holds for Creek.

His mind wanders aimlessly in pursuit of the memories where there’s no doubt of Branch’s love for him. And Creek still doesn’t doubt it. There’s no way that Branch would know about this engagement. The king himself said he’d kept it secret until last night. It would be just like his highness to pull something so dastardly and unfair. He’s never shown remorse for the times he’s degraded Branch. As if the prince never worked his fingers to the bone to make sure the kingdom functions with trouble.

Branch is probably brooding now. He never sleeps when his mind’s full of worry. Creek throws aside his sheets and rises in the small hours, and fastens on dark blue tunic and pulls on tan linen trousers before stealing away to a hidden door set in the wall beside his window, concealed by curtains, tucked deep into a corner. The door, which only he knew how to open without a knob or key, lead to a narrow passageway that ran from his stationed level of the castle pod to the upper chambers and ends at another secret door, which again, only he could open. He has no trouble making his way up the stone steps, having memorized the way from years of usage. For motives unknown to him, this way lead directly to Branch’s bedroom. It’d been built into the castle pod by previous constructors. He’d come upon it during a clumsy stumble and a bounce of his fist against the wall.

He explored it and with delight, discovers it leads straight to a hidden entrance where Branch studies at his desk. And the same as he’s done in the past, Creek comes through that way, quiet as air and squeezes through. He erects several locking measures to Branch’s door and carefully creeps from one end of the bed chamber toward the enormous canopy bed where he sees Branch sitting on its edge, shoulders slump and head bowed.

It never crosses Creek’s mind how truly upset Branch is until the sounds of broken cries quietly empty into his hands. The unwelcome fact hits him brutally, knifing at his heart like a shard of crystal. The pain his prince feels just as much hurts him too. He crosses to him without another moment and lets the creak in the floors announce his approach.

Branch’s head jerks up, eyes reddened and cheeks ashen from the dried streaks. “Creek,” he whispers anxiously. “Oh Creek, I didn’t—”

“Hush, love.” Creek sits flush to him and brings his arms around Branch’s shoulders and lay’s the prince’s face in his neck. “I know, I know.”

“I don’t want this,” comes the muffled protest. “Father will force me to do it anyway and where will that leave us? I can’t marry Aspen. I don’t love him.”

Creek fiercely shakes his head. “That’s because you love me and I’ll make damned sure he knows. That the whole kingdom knows it,” he growls, then angrily finishes with, “I’ll challenge him to a duel for your hand if that’s what it takes!”

“No!” Branch pulls away, frantic. “You can’t do that. Father will learn about your magic then. You have to keep it hidden!”

“I’ll deal with it!”

“I don’t want him finding out your secret!”

“Then what will you have me do? Have me stand idly by while some other troll takes you away from me?”

“I-I don’t know, but I would rather suffer a fate worse than death than for father to see what you are. He’ll have you exiled or worse.”

Creek cradles Branch’s face in his hands and brings their foreheads together. “Darling, I’m already suffering a touch close to death knowing that I may lose you.”

“You won’t, Creek. We’ll figure something out.” Branch nuzzles their faces, rubs their cheeks and kisses Creek’s lips. “I could run away with you?"

Creek chuckles bitterly. “Kidnap the heir to this kingdom. Yes, that certainly won’t guarantee my execution.” He sighs, leaning away. “It feels strange, like fate’s working against us. We’ve kept our relationship hidden all these years. We been so many trials. So very many.”

Branch grimly nods. “It’s like the heavens find our lives a joke. For every time we push through something that threatens our love, another tribulation comes forth.”

"Now, upon the time it comes for you to take the throne so you can claim me as your mate, this happens. Are the heavens somehow laughing at us? It’s so troubling. . . I-I’ve grown tired of being kept a secret, but I bore it. I can’t bear to have you taken from me. Where will that leave me? Alone?”

“You won’t be.” Branch joins their hands firmly, kissing all of Creek’s knuckles. “I’ll protest, argue, fight it, do whatever I must until this engagement is dissolved. The Gods themselves will have to tear me away from you bloody and battered. I love you.”

“And I you,” Creek said in a quietly insistently voice. He smiles gently and bends his head down to lay in the crook of Branch’s neck. “I love you so much so that the thought of you makes my heart soar.”  

Branch lays his lips against Creek’s cheek, not to kiss, just to rest and feel. “My beloved, big brother.”

“My darling little brother.”

Forbidden, secret, hidden, all of those things. The secret of Creek’s origins came to a head three years ago. It’s a long story and one he’d rather not think over too much right now. His birth parents were of high blood and he was the bastard they didn’t want. So, he was thrown away, abandoned. Creek will never know how he survived, but he has and if destiny never wanted him with Branch, then it wouldn’t be so.

The nuzzles, soft touches, butterfly strokes over their shoulders soon lead to Branch coaxing Creek’s face up and by the slowest degrees, he connects their lips and Creek finds himself being soundly kissed. His mouth falls open at the hurried intensity and Branch’s tongue immediately invades, claiming him, demanding a taste. Creek would have liked to combat it, but incredible sensations flowed through his limbs like static and he moans against his will. It’s Branch’s magic, pleasantly calling out to his and Creek easily lets it flood him in all its dominating splendor. He reaches up with trembling fingers to tangle in his highness’s hair and clings to it.

It gradually becomes messy, less clean. Branch’s hand lowers to clutch Creek’s hip and he tugs him into him at an awkward twist and it’s hardly as important as the desperation to breathe. Creek pulls away to gulp in air as hastily as he could before Branch’s on him again, not having any of the separation. He bows them as one on the bed, pulling Creek beneath him and slips between his thighs, and quickly nibs and bites at Creek’s neck.

“Ah, yes, Branch, just like that. . .”

Creek rubs and bucks his hips against Branch’s growing erection as much as he can, the addictive closeness simply not enough to quench his building lust. Branch bites him, so hard, Creek gives a startled groan.

“Ah, you savage!” Creek twitches as the words escape in a long-drawn-out moan. And he claim’s Branch’s mouth hungrily. “Do it again.”

A consuming wave of Branch’s want pushes through Creek so suddenly, he thought he’d reached an orgasm. “I never gave you permission to speak, did I?” taunts the prince.

“N-no.”

“No, what?”

Creek’s eyes darken. “No, Your Highness.”

“Better.” Branch places his hands on either side of Creek’s head and pushes up to hover above him. “Touch your prince. Some warmth down there will please me.”

“As you command, Your Highness.” Creek does as ordered, sliding his hand down Branch’s chest, to the band hiding his sex, then he dips his fingers inside, trailing the pulsing length with teasing grazes. The hot, heavy organ radiates with a dense heat that makes the captain’s mouth water.

Branch kisses him and ruts into the grasp. Their teeth lick, tongues roll, and the sound of their heavy breathing doesn’t mask the noise of three curt knocks on Branch’s door. The two freeze, Branch’s eyes huge and Creek as equally wide open. At the turning of the knob, Creek promptly rolls off the bed and hides under it. Branch shakily clears his throat and busily pushes his hair up into order and tried to look like nothing was out of the ordinary, though he was sure his blush would give away any misconduct.

Branch’s immensely relieved Creek can move so fast when he sees Aspen enter dressed in black tunic and white tights, and a wicker basket hanging off his arm.

“Aspen,” Branch greets tightly.

“Oh, for the love of bloody biscuits,” Branch hears Creek whisper under his feet. He bumps his heel into his bed to get the fool to shut up.

“Branch.” Aspen shuts the door behind him. “You don’t strike me as an early riser.”  

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Quite.” Aspen looks over the spacious chamber with calm scrutiny. His sights linger longest at Branch’s desk, seeming to see something floating in the air before his gaze settles evenly on his younger cousin. “Listen, about last night—”

Branch folds his arms, tone sharp and accusing. “Did you know anything about it?”

Aspen steps further in. “I was caught off guard, same as you,” he answers, the casual manner making Branch highly doubt the reply. “I just handled it better.”

“Pardon?”

“Don’t act surprised, Branch.” Aspen places the basket on one of the nightstands supporting a golden lamp and seats himself on the edge of Branch’s bed. “One of the first qualities I’ve come to dislike about you is that you’re spoiled.”

Branch stamps his foot. “I am not spoiled!” Though that certainly didn’t prove it wrong.

As Aspen lifts a dubious eyebrow, he says, “You dishonored your father in front of your entire kingdom when you left as you did. Not only did it show a lack of discipline or refinement, the impropriety of your actions show you have no sort of reverence for me or my father. I had the right mind to snatch you back, slap you senseless and make you behave as the prince you are!”

“How dare you!” Branch bursts out. “My actions weren’t unjustified. You have no idea what I’ve gone through dealing with my father. What gives you the right to pass judgment—”

“Am I not a prince too?” Aspen pointedly cuts off., tapping a finger on the bed. “With equal demands if not more considering I’m captain of the Jane Magnolia military and stand to achieve my major rank before I turn twenty-seven.”

“You don’t—don’t understand,” Branch whispers, aware he’s mumbling like a disoriented fellow. “No one does.”

“Understand what? The daily challenges of being consistently watched? Where if you so much as breathe wrong, you stand to easily offend your entire kingdom during councils? The challenges you have to face the instant you open your eyes because there’s always a problem a foot?” Aspen narrows his gaze, the anger so violently tamed, Branch can’t decipher the glimmering flames as magic or true rage. “A villager needs medicine or disease has broken out so now you have to order a quarantine to avoid the rest of your subjects from being contaminated. There isn’t enough food, the dams holding the floods at bay are threatening to collapse. A kingdom’s liaison arrives demanding compensation for keeping true to their treaties and going through negotiations with fellow royalty and maintaining a composition that doesn’t reveal how much you hate the sight of them and what they stand for. Your attention is divided in every direction, and there’s only one of you, yet you have to make it work. Why? Because there’s constant demand for your help and you can solve it. No, Branch I don’t understand what you’re going through because I doubt even you do.”

Silence. Branch knew replying would leave him inferior because there was no tangible way to counter his cousin’s words. He tries to brace himself for the anger or fiery resistance, but he’s resolved to feeling disappointed in himself. He doesn’t feel upset enough about that much and folds his arms, head bowed.

“You have a very child-like conception about the way things are and will be for you, Branch,” Aspen goes on to say. “I see now your father has sheltered you from a great deal of responsibilities. You may have a few, but none that amount to drastic changes in your kingdom. Am I right?”

Branch licks his dry lips, looking crossly at the tangerine troll. His silence is answer enough.

Aspen nods. “You’re not fragile. You have the potential to be a just, fair king. In time, I know you will be. You’re just a dusted diamond needing to be polished more,” he chuckles at the end. Then softly adds, “We’re engaged Branch. Like it or now, the decree makes it sound. I hope it’s not because of _who_ you’re engaged to that makes you protest so strongly.”

“No, it isn’t,” Branch murmurs.

“Then what is it? Because you claim to be in love with someone else?”

Branch snaps his head around to fully face his cousin. “ _I am_ in love with him.”

“Fine, fine,” Aspen waves off, “say that you are,” he shrugs. “I’m not stopping you from being with him.”

“If we are married—”

“And what if we are?” laughs Aspen and he bounds gracefully off the bed to twirl on the tip of his toe and stops to look at Branch’s bewildered expression. “We’re both young, beautiful gentle-trolls. We love each other, yes, but it’s merely platonic. And you said no when I offered you free mating. I only have to be told _no_ once. I prefer my bedmates willing.”

A dragging screech, thankfully too low for Aspen to notice, doesn’t go unheard by Branch and he lands a pleading bump to his bed for Creek to settle down.

“So, keep your lover and I’ll have my own harem. That way we both get to have what we want.”

“But. . . but I couldn’t. It’s unseemly—”

Aspen rolls his eyes, grinning at him and moving to grab Branch’s arms and rattles him until his teeth click. “Who cares what goes on in the privacy of our bedroom? If there is one immature fantasy I want to hold on to,  it is to bed anyone I please without consequence and thus far, I have done so. So, has my father,” he says softly and kisses Branch’s cheek. “Now, enough chatter. We can discuss our engagement more over breakfast. Join me.”

Branch shakes his head. “I’m not going to breakfast.”

“I know.” Aspen winks. “It’s why I thought to serve you breakfast in bed.”

“Y-you did?”

“Of course, what sort of fiancée would I be if I didn’t notice my beloved is upset?”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I did. We’re engaged now, Branch. A great many changes will happen. Some we’ll like, some we won’t like. I propose we start sharing a bed effective immediately—”

The scratch comes at an octave impossible to ignore.

“That’s twice,” Aspen growls. “I knew it.” He shoves Branch behind him, and in the same calculative motion, thrusts his hand in a triangular gesture and presses his palm into the airspace.

Creek is dragged out by the roots of his hair and elevated in the air, gasping and scratching at the tangles of magic coiling around his throat. Aspen balls his fist, and draws his arm back. Creek comes flying towards him. The glint of a dagger shines in the coming sunlight, but Branch doesn’t have the speed to stop Aspen before he grabs Creek around the throat and slams him into the floor, jamming the leaf-thin edge of his blade against his throat.

“Sneaking into your prince and _my_ fiancée’s bedroom, villain?” Aspen growls dangerously. “Your head will roll, I swear it!”

The shudder to rake through Creek’s body isn’t terror.

He twists savagely to the side, taking the shallow cut to his throat, and thrusts forth with his elbow and hand at the same time, directly into the tangerine prince’s chest. Aspen reels, caught between the severe ache in his chest cavity and the sharp ache in his nose and mouth when Creek backhands him. Aspen flails and quickly gets to his hands and feet, spreading one palm out. Gale force winds propel Creek into a wall and takes him to the opposite wall with equal brutality.

“Stop it!” Branch cries out. “Aspen that’s enough!”

“Not until he’s properly punished!” Aspen snaps and proceeds to rise Creek so that his back is flat to the ceiling. As he makes the motion to relieve his magic’s hold on him, a hand grabs his wrist and foreign magic cuffs his own in a frozen state.

Aspen gawks, outraged at the treachery.

“Let him go,” Branch hisses, eyes a devilish glow. “Kill him, and I will paint my face with your blood.”

Understanding dawns over Aspen’s features. He suddenly grins and slowly lowers Creek towards the bed and drops him there. “This is him, then,” he outright laughs, shaking his head. Then directs his chortling shock at the purple troll. “You’re fortunate to have a prince willing to kill for you, stranger. You’ve either bewitched my cousin or the mating’s so good, you've render him addicted enough to murder for it!”

Branch rushes over to check Creek's condition. Besides bruises and some cuts, he isn’t too far off. With a concentrated focus, Branch rubs his palms together and commands his energy to heal and mend all damages to his lover’s body.

“Are you alright, Creek?”

“I will be.” Creek coughs, pressing a palm to his forehead. His head throbbed something wicked. Then his head lists to the side as he glares at the laughing tangerine troll. “I don’t see what’s so bloody funny!” he snaps. “You could have very well killed me!”

Aspen sobers, leaning his weight to his right foot as he props a hand to his hip. “My actions weren’t unwarranted. I thought you were an assassin. How was I supposed to know you’re my cousin’s lover?” He heals himself with a wordless spell, then folds his arms. A lazy once-over studies over Creek’s face, the state of his wrinkled clothes, namely where his shoulder’s exposed from his oversized tunic, and the spread of his legs.

“Mmm, nice,” purrs Aspen, licking his lips. “Very nice.”  

Branch lifts his head. “Don’t even think about it.”

Aspen sighs, rising his hands as a show of defeat. “I won’t touch. And I know you won’t share?” it’s posed as more of a question, then a statement, to which Branch fiercely shakes his head. Aspen shrugs a shoulder. “So stingy cousin. A morsel that tasty shouldn’t be kept to yourself.  I wonder what his face looks like in the throes of passion. Will his mouth gap and he gasp while being sucked dry or will his eyes roll in a drugged delirium while taken from behind?”

Creek’s face’s pure red. He thought only Branch capable of being able to pull a blush like that from him. Aspen is lust personified. Not even Branch elbowing him could shake his stupor.

“You’re so vulgar,” Branch growls. “Whose behavior should be in question now?”

Aspen sighs. “Oh well, but having him here does save me the trouble of having to say my idea twice.”

“What idea?”

“About what I said earlier, Branch. Us getting married and keeping your lover and I will have my own.”

Creek remembers that portion of the discussion and immediately refused it. He won’t share Branch. The mere idea churnd his stomach and he sure isn’t going to sleep with Aspen. Neither of them believed in polygamy.

“I . . . it’s not that simple. I mean.” Branch looks in unrest at Creek, mouth opening and closing. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know,” says Creek. “No, of course.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss the idea, Creek,” says Aspen. “Whether you agree or not, our engagement still stands. You’ll either lose Branch entirely or with my way, at least you two can be together without consequence.”

“That kind of practice won’t stand here,” Creek argues, as he sits up. “Having multiple partners is frowned upon.”

Aspen chuckles. “Perhaps it will be for now, but once I’m made king, no one will dare oppose it.”

“When _you’re_ king?”

“That’s right.” He turns his back to the pair and goes to retrieve the basket of breakfast foods. “I’m older and my father’s the original king of this kingdom. Therefore, all Branch inherits will automatically become mine. He’ll be king still, but my rule will be higher—my say will be final.”

Creek couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He looks to Branch and his sunken shoulders only confirm what’s said. Creek reaches out to touch the blue prince’s shoulder, mournful. “Oh Branch.”

Branch covers his hand, eyes closed shut, the pain and confusion visible on his face. He looks so tired.

“Buck up!” Aspen says and goes to bounce on the bed between them, munching on a jellied muffin. “You’ll both see that my way is the only way to handle this situation. Just watch, it’ll all work out in the end.” He looks between them, cheeks round with mush, then he swallows, reaches in the basket for a couple of thick biscuits, lathered in butter with eggs and bacon stacked in the middle.

“Eat,” his voice softens, losing all traces of its cheer. “Please?”

Branch spares it a look. Creek glowers at the offer.

Eventually, the two do take the food and in the quietness of the bedroom, all three share the breakfast, thoughts shattered in all directions, but only two going one way.

“By the way, Branch?”

“Yes?”

Aspen turns a seductive grin at the younger prince. “Was it hot  when I arrived or were you just happy to see me?”

“More like he was happy to see me, actually!” Creek entails and takes a vicious bite of his sandwich.

“I hope you’ll both come to _feel_ happy seeing me too.” Then Aspen claps his hands over their groins.

When the two begin to actively choke to death, Aspen throws his head back and laughs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm falling in love with Aspen's character lol.


	4. As Our Deepest Concerns Surface

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good grief, I can't believe I actually forgot to update this story. I need a spanking. Smdh. I don't even have a writer's block for this story. Anyway, I apologize for the late update, but here's a nice long chapter, full of drama, and mild fluff (I really suck at writing fluff. I can't do cutesy stuff lol). Please excuse any mistakes and enjoy!

**As Our Deepest Concerns Surface**

 

“How could you be so insensitive, Sage? For every ruling you’ve ever made, I’ve stood idly by and silently supported your decisions, but I must stand firm against this one!”

Calla’s been rifling through endless stacks of documents housed within cabinets embedded into the far wall, then flings them in the air with a burst of high temper. The cyan skinned, silver haired male troll servant assigned to King Sage appears abruptly next to her, collecting the scattered sheets without a complaint.  She ignores him when he quits the room and scours through another drawer and when not finding what she was after, slams it shut and whirls around to face Sage’s patient, hard eyes.

“Where is it, Sage?” She demands, voice dangerous and daring for him to lie. “The documents to this God forsaken morganatic arrangement. I have every right to review them!”

“I’m aware,” he calmly replies.

“Just as you were aware of telling me about this furtive adjustment to your son?”

This has been going since the early morning, his wife’s persistent interrogations, forceful attempts at getting him to yield into confessing whatever elaborate scheme she assumes he’s holding against her, but it’s nothing of the likes. All her inquiries, he intends to explain to her, but only when Moss is present to sort out of the wrinkles to this affair. There are some questions, Sage himself, require be answered as well.

So, Sage has vaguely paid much attention to Calla’s caterwauling and patiently allows her to fuss and rave until she’s tired herself and the cycle begins again. A shame she couldn’t put this to rest. Their breakfast is getting cold and Biggie’s worked so hard to ensure they have a pleasant meal, given recent events. No doubt the servants and soldiers have taken to gossiping about what’s occurred and fabricated their own takes of what’s happened and the meaning behind the royal family’s reactions.

Calla’s fury.

Branch storming out of the ballroom.

Poppy’s crying.

That only left Moss, Sage and Aspen as the only accepting ones to the change. Except, even young Aspen showed signs in his expression of being caught off guard by the announcement. Nonetheless, he dealt with it as appropriately as a prince should. It’d been his choice to approach Branch in private to discuss their arrangement. Sage knew confronting his son over his behavior wouldn’t be the best course of action. Especially given now when he has his fiery wife to simper down.

The abandoned breakfast dishes were carted off amid Calla’s complaining and replaced with a steaming pot of earl grey tea, and an exquisite set of powder sugared strawberries on a plate. Alongside those are lightly buttered slices of melba toast, white cheese and tomato jam, and steamed seasoned potted mushrooms.

Because the civilized breeding within him refuses to eat without his lady company, he hesitates only long enough to interrupt her ranting with a rough clearing of his throat. “Darling.”

“Unless you have an explanation to provide,” Calla starts in a clipped tone, “I would greatly appreciate not being interrupted. You have a great deal more to hear from me.”

“I’m all for hearing more of your rationality on any given day, but our meal will be cold again if we don’t enjoy it. Won’t you join me? Spare a few minutes to dine with your husband and king.”

Unexpectedly, Calla quietens, eyes shifting. Then upon seeing the new dishes brought out during her venting, her lips part. Perhaps her hunger is finally making itself known. He’s assured of it when, she slides up a chair to his desk and using a pair of his utensils, takes a portion of his potted mushroom and takes three pieces of toast for herself. His plate is slid back to him, a napkin spread in her lap and she begins delicately nibbling her meal.

Sage watches her for a spell, charmed and relieved to have her at peace for the time being. Despite being furious with him, she was impudently stealing food off his plate, sharing his food. It’s the kind of intimacy mates indulged in. He doesn’t waste a moment more and begins slicing silvers of his mushroom and fitting them on his toast to eat.

The tension’s hardly as palpable as earlier, their atmosphere sinking into a pleasant silence.

“Tell me, Sage,” Calla mutters after sipping from her glass of orange juice. “Whose idea was this subterfuge? I doubt it was you. Devious acts aren’t within your character.”

“Partially, mine,” Sage doesn’t have a problem admitting and cleans his fingertips with a napkin. “It was an agreement between me and Moss. Neither party has more influence over the other.”

Calla chortles, roughly spearing her toast. “Somehow I find that hard to swallow.”

“Calla—”

“Am I wrong?”

“Overwhelmingly, now finish your meal.” Sage polishes off another slice of toast without another word, ignoring her scalding gaze. She eventually continues eating and just like that, the tensions been revived.

The door to his office falls open and Moss emits himself inside the way any owner to an office does. Or a quiet storm does to some unsuspecting villagers. But this isn’t his office, this isn’t some land he can privately invade without notice and Sage opens his mouth to comment on his older brother’s rudeness, but Calla’s already seized the opportunity.

“See here now,” she snaps, rising to her feet. “We are in the middle of a private conference. I would appreciate you leaving.”

Moss casually looks her up and down, unfazed. “There’s a great many things I’d appreciate of you as well, _Carla_ , namely your presence being somewhere other than within my vicinity. But we all can’t get what we want, can we?” He spares her a dismissively glance, then sweeps the room to find Sage. “Ah, brother dear, as requested, I’ve arrived to further chat over this arrangement. Oh, I see you’ve even ordered brunch. Splendid!”

Moss breezes past the queen, coming to sweep a toast slice off Sage’s plate, piles two slices of cheese and smears a spread of tomato jam over the surface before pressing inside his mouth.

“Mmm, delightful. The toast’s perfectly grilled, the jam’s sweetened and the cheese aged just right. I can only expect quality from your cooks, brother. You’ve had them trained well.” The seat pulled before Sage’s desk is occupied and Moss leans forward, folding his arms over the surface, eyes a glint of hidden devilment. He knows very well how antagonizing he’s being and won’t cease doing it until he’s gotten the reaction he’s after.

“Moss,” Sage begins slow and careful, “you were king once in this kingdom. I rule here now, so please, respect me and mine when you approach. You need to address my queen with equal respect.”

Moss blinks owlishly. “Oh, is that so?” Moss lifts an eyebrow, glancing briefly over his shoulder. “If you consider her queen material, I fear I’ve greatly failed you in your teachings. Someone so uncouth and ill-bred can hardly be considered worthy of the lesser throne.”

Calla bristles, all her dark rose-colored hair flaring to pinpoints. “How dare you insult me!”

Moss whirls up to his feet, folding his arms. “Oh my, my, my, did I strike a nerve?”  

“Moss, Calla, enough,” says Sage, but his warning goes unheeded.

“You—you vile, evil, loathsome, pathetic excuse for a troll!” Calla storms up to the older king, pressing a single finger into his chest, unaware of the danger lurking beneath his darkening eyes. “It is you who’s the ill-bred, uncouth, worthless royalty. You’ve hated me ever since my engagement to your brother. Why is that, Moss? Because I was able to get to him before you?”

“Calla, you’ve said enough,” Sage tries once more only for his entire company to be abandoned.

Shadows fog over Moss’s eyes, like swimmers disguised by the waves of a raging ocean.

“You can’t stand seeing him with me because it isn’t you.” Calla smirks, upturning her nose. “Those two gorgeous children are mine. I bore them both. It’s my bed he shares, my touch he craves, my love he adores. Nothing of you will ever replace me.”

Moss tosses his head back with a throaty laugh, startling Calla back a step. “My dear, I would call my brother an utter fool if he turned down your hand. You have beauty, a marginal display of comprehension and a decent womb. What else is there to you outside of carrying his seed? Nothing worth mentioning. If I were provided a female who’d sooner bed me as soon as look at me, I’d easily take the offer. What other use of you is there besides spreading your legs—”

The slap to follow leaves a deafening ring. Moss’s face stays turned from the force of it, eyes slightly widened and grin spreading. He slowly turns to face her and he prays the look on his face is what terrifies her in her nightmares. Calla swallows thickly, cradling her burning palm and gazes at the redness swelling.

“Alright, then.” He runs a soothing palm over his cheek. “Assaulting someone of higher stature.” Moss rises a curled fist, ice white and cool blue coursing between his fingers like wet fire. “That’s grounds for death.”

“No, Moss.”

The older king doesn’t look away from the trembling queen as a calming hand lays over the spell rushing through him like the brew of barely contained lightning. Sage holds the balled fist and easily siphons the magic from it until nothing remains. Moss’s jaw tightens, his chest heaves once as a large exhale leaves him and offers a small smile at Sage.

“Very well,” he says to the plea in his brother’s eyes. “I will behave.” He shoots a dark look at Calla. “Only for his sake.” Then he whips around to retake the chair placed before Sage’s desk, smoothing back the strands of hair that’d magnetically crept towards his magic.

Sage gathers Calla’s trembling form in his arms, rocking her back and forth and eases her towards the door. “It’s OK, darling. He won’t harm you.”

“You didn’t sense it,” Calla whispers in his chest. “I never knew how deep his hatred was for me until that moment. I felt it, smelt it, Sage. He longs for my death. I-I never imagined I could visibly see it in my mind’s eye.” She leans away, gripping desperately at his kurta shirt. “Sage, you’ll protect me from him, won’t you? He means to kill me, take the children, take you, all three of you from me.”

“Don’t speak nonsense,” Sage whispers confidently. “I’ll have a word with him about his treatment of you.”

“And his possessiveness over Branch and Poppy. . . especially of Branch. I’ve seen the way he’s looked at him.” She whimpers, burying her face deeper in Sage’s chest. “He wants Branch for himself. There’s something there he desires. Dare I believe he yearns to cradle my son as if he were his own—”

“That’s because Branch should have been mine!” Moss roars and suddenly surges to his feet, knocking away the chair and assails the embracing pair. He shoves between them, pushing Sage away and grabbing at Calla’s collar. “You came at the worse time and damned that boy with your filthy, worthless blood. Summoning the simplest spell burns his flesh. He’s forever cursed by you. And what of Poppy? She’s to be left confused and helpless because she can only sense magic, but not conjure so much as a tendril!”

“Moss, unhand her!” Sage grabs at his brother’s hands. “We are passed this. There’s nothing that can be done!”

“Her very existence is a mockery to me!” Moss shakes her with both hands, ignoring Sage tugging at his arms. “I don’t have to like anything about, you despicable wench. And you’ll do well to keep your appalling self from my sight during my stay!” He tosses her away only after feeling the scorching and pain of Sage’s magic branding his skin with a determined force. Even when he lets go, Sage maintains his searing hold until his hands have burned through Moss’s sleeve.

“If you dare, touch my wife like that that again, our shared blood will be the last thing to spare your life. Am I clear?”

Moss narrows his gaze. “Crystal,” he says, snatching his arm loose. With a single wave of his hand, the burns heal, leaving behind a faint discoloration. “We’ll have this talk another time,” he says, leaving out the door without a backwards glance.

Calla collapses heavily to the floor, crying. Sage looks after his brother until he’s sure he’s gone, then goes to cradle his wife close, shaking his head to this monstrous mess. God help him, why does he feel this is the beginning of something more hideous to occur?

And what’s worse, Sage knows he can’t make his brother leave unless he’s good and ready. Which he doesn’t suspect will be any time soon.

****

Over the next three days, Branch spent much of his spare time wandering the castle pod, seeking small chores and duties to busy his hands and mind on; nothing overly strenuous or consuming his thoughts since he doesn’t want to lose too much focus over thinking about his situation. Although, this routine has pleasantly aided in curing his anxiety, he wishes it could bring back the normalcy of what he’d been used to before the recent changes in his life. He’d give anything for things to return to the way they once were.

But it seems that everywhere he turns, a change of some kind is there to brightly remind him that yesterday is over, today is now, and tomorrow will come no matter what. As the noon sun rises high, Branch finds himself reading over letters in his office delivered this morning by a messenger from the neighboring Gladiola Empire. He’d sent a letter responding to their request to cross his kingdom’s southern borders due to excessive flooding preventing them to take their usual route through the Jade Forest. Permission was approved only if the providence promised to stick strictly to the path allotted them and no more.

Relations with the small commonwealth were rocky, but both lands depended on the other for resources. Small matters like these could be handled easily enough by Branch; it’s why he always ordered messengers delivering these sorts of issues to be sent straight to him. Any other matters requiring a higher decision were taken to the king. Branch paid more mind to these problems more than usual he noticed.

He can owe that to Aspen’s inspirational lecture about not taking of his princely responsibilities. Though not precisely worded that way, Branch still felt the sting left behind from his fiancée’s opinion of him.

Branch scowls at the letter grasp in his palms before placing it on the desk. The mere thought of calling Aspen his fiancée feels unnatural. That title should belong to another. Speaking of whom, Branch hasn’t spoken to Creek in two days. The captain of the royal guard was tasked to investigate rumors of bandit activities along the southern borders. It’s likely a small band of banished trolls, seeking ways back into the surrounding villages. Their antics have become more brazen over the past year. There’s no way to know who the leader of these small groups are, but Branch wasn’t overly worried. He trusts Creek to take care of it.

_‘Creek.’_

Branch sighs, and tries again to concentrate on the letter’s contents. Only five minutes into it and the words blur, comprehension lessens and suddenly his thoughts are full of Creek. Branch has read the same sentence several times. Reading’s a no go so he changes to scribbling his signature over letters to the governors in several villages scheduled to be at a small meeting next week. He wants to discuss the monthly ration supply and how distributions are being done.

A knock interrupts his flow of thought. Branch leans away from his desk and looks out the window. The sun is hanging just above the tree line. He refuses to give these documents a moment more and stands to stretch _. “_ Enter _!”_

The door softly opens to a young brightly purple skinned troll with bleach white hair tied in a messy knot on his head. He shuffles inside, nervously wringing his hands together.

Branch beckons the young page over. “Yes, Clay?”

“Sire, your father has summoned you and I’ve been told to tell you that I’m being reassigned as King Moss’s manservant during his stay.”

“Who authorized this?”

“King Moss, sire.”

Well then. Branch gives into the urge to roll his eyes and shakes his head. “That’s short notice.”

“I’m terribly sorry, sire.”

“No, it isn’t your fault, Clay.” Branch waves off. He pushes his work into a flat based basket and rounds the desk. He claps a hand over the young troll’s shoulder, smiling kindly. “I could never be angry with you. I’m more annoyed over being left strayed. Even if it’s temporary, I hate to lose you to someone else.”

Clay’s face colors shyly. “I-if it were up to me sire, I would stay by your side. I prefer to serve you. You’re familiar with what I’m capable of. Anyone who directly serves a king is expected to be less than flawless.”

“That’s you.”

“Oh no, sire!” Clay flushes to the roots of his hair, green eyes huge and shocked. “I’m far from perfect. I do my best is all.”

Branch laughs a little. “And that’s what makes you one of the most sought-after servants. I have to fight off my sister just to keep you with me. Now come, I’ve work needing to file. I’m sure my uncle doesn’t need your services right away. . . or does he?”

“No sire, I’m not expected until this evening.”

“Good, you’ll help me until then.”

“Yes sire.”

Branch leaves his office with Clay trailing two steps behind, carrying the prince’s work. They turn down the corridor leading to the king’s primary office and as they do, Branch comments, “How are things going between you and Flint? If memory serves, you said you two were getting married soon?”

Clay ducks his head between his shoulders, though his smile is warm and enamored. “Not for another five months, nineteen days, sire.”

“Counting down the days?” Branch teases.

A soft giggle. “Eagerly, sire. We’re looking forward to finally exchanging vows. Flint’s been working extra shifts under Captain Creek and Lieutenant Diamond to earn some money for the decorations. And with me getting a raise in my wages now, we’ll have more than enough to take care of expenses.”

“I could arrange to—”

“Oh no, sire,” Clay quickly dismisses. “Please, don’t offer your trades. We are more than capable of doing it ourselves. Besides. . . Flint likes the idea of showing he can take care of us.”

Branch smiles. “That’s the kind of troll you keep your hands on. Keep him close, Clay. Such loyalty is rare nowadays.”

“I have no doubt of that, sire.”

When the pair halt outside his majesty’s office, Branch silently sends Clay away until summoned at another time. It’s likely King Sage is already aware his son is out the door, despite the radical pulse of his magic seeping past the door like a suffocating fog. Branch considers the state of his dress critically, although his long sleeveless teal tunic and gold trousers have been immaculate, stainless, and free of wrinkles. Still, even a casual stride down the halls could crumble the end of his tunic and disorder his clothes. He finds a bit of loose string on his knee and hurriedly bats it away.

Then he realizes his hands are trembling, and he clasps his hand tight with a frown.

Branch shakes his head, inwardly wondering how it’s come to this. Why does he hesitate to speak to his own father? When did he begin to become reluctant to review himself as worthy? How long will it continue to be like this before he returns to feeling adequate?

 _‘Don’t be silly,’_ Branch mentally berates his behavior as he raised his hand to knock. ‘At this rate, the slightest imperfection will cause you all times of mental ailments.’

“Enter,” his father’s resonate voice says, and Branch twists the knob feeling a little calmer. His father doesn’t sound agitated. Good. He must be in a good mood.

King Sage is bent over his desk in the middle of his enormous spaced office, looking over a band of a dozen or so documents, several of which were being verbally rehearsed by his personal Page. He’s dressed in common clothes, a dark bronze jerkins tunic with billowy sleeves and likely jet-black tights. His crown is discarded to the side along. He never wears it whenever he roams inside the castle. The only sign of his status being the gilt stitching of his family’s crest on his breast.

“Alright,” the king murmurs once the Page finishes and he touches the young lad’s shoulder. “Tell Minister Rootsberg and Counselor Laurence to review these again. I find them favorable, but no more than that. We’ll schedule a meeting with General Dove before further considerations are made. Also, deliver these maps to High Minister Petunia and Captain Creek. I want the circle provinces to investigate the destruction of the dams in the eastern forests. Do you understand?”

The Page bows low, mumbling he did. The documents are collected and neatly stacked in a deliver basket. King Sage briefly runs his thumb over the Page’s forehead and nods, silently excusing him from the office.  Branch quietly nears the desk’s front, next to one of the two chairs and waits permission to seat. It’s minutes more before Branch’s soft breathing makes the king look up from writing a note.

“Seat, Branch. We’ve much to discuss.”

Branch looks at him hard for a long while before complying, placing his own paperwork next to him. “Indeed, Father.”

King Sage returns his gaze evenly before replacing his feathered quill in its ink pot. “You’ve been avoiding me, Branch,” his voice is low and calm. “I thought to give you a while to get used to your engagement. I know the sudden announcement comes as a shock—”

“It does,” Branch sharply interrupts, unable to stand it. “You didn’t think to speak to me or even Mother about my betrothal. It’s bad enough I feel like my entire life is being manipulated by your actions. Now, you think to dictate my love life? Where will the line be drawn?”

“Branch—”

“It isn’t fair. I deserve a say in who earns my hand in marriage. You can’t auction me away like some slave of the market!”

“Don’t you take that tone with me, you insufferable child!” King Sage surges to his feet, and comes around in a long stride. When he halts in front of Branch, Branch trembles involuntarily. The swell of the king’s magic and being so close to its throbbing pressure was like having static bouncing over Branch’s arms. “All I’ve ever done is what’s best for you, our family and this kingdom. Nothing’s done without consequence. You act as though you’re the only one who’s ever made a sacrifice. Something so minuet as this should hardly impact your life. If you’re afraid of Aspen being an unfit husband—”

“No!” Branch’s voice softens as he looks to the side. “Aspen is. . . Aspen is a great troll. Anyone with half sense would be grateful to have him.”

“Are you suggesting you don’t possess that sense?”

Branch cuts his eyes at his father. Then blinks and chuckles under his breath. “I guess I called myself stupid.”

“Perhaps,” King Sage muses and the lighthearted noise is so foreign, Branch is startled and gawks.  

Branch missed that sound so much. He’s never realized how he’s secretly longed to hear it until his throat tightened. Only by swallowing does he cover the emotional lump and straightens. “Father. . .”

“Yes?”

A sadness casts over Branch’s eyes. “When. . . why does this strain exist between us? When is the last time we’ve laughed together or enjoyed each other’s company? We can’t even be in the same room without tension. . .” Branch lifts his eyes a little, lids low and sorrowful. “I miss what we used to be.”

“Son. . .” King Sage straightens and sighs, then goes to lean his hip against the corner of his desk. “I don’t know. Which goes against all I stand for since I promised myself when you and your sister were born that I would always be able to provide you an answer to all your questions. And here I’m unable to do that.”

“Honestly Father, you know there are times where I don’t think you love me.”

“What? Branch how could you think that? I do love—”

Three strong knocks rap against the door. Sage takes a deep breath that comes out more like a rough growl. He was in the process of telling whoever is there to go away when the door opens and Moss sweeps in wearing a loose fitted lavender and cream sleeved kirtle with brown tights.

“Ah, brother, nephew,” he brightly greets, lifting a brow between the two. “What a glorious day it is to see you two speaking. You were held up in your room so long, I thought we’d seen the last of you Branch.”

Branch blushes, mouth twisting to the side.

“Branch don’t do that with your lips, son,” Sage softly scolds. “It isn’t befitting a prince.”

“Oh hush, Sage,” laughs Moss. “Let the boy pout. I poked fun, he deserves to mope a little.”

“For the second time today, Moss?” Sage hisses, as he folds his arms. “We were in the middle of a conversation. So, unless you have something pressing to speak on. . .?” He leaves the statement open, obvious and gestures impatiently for the other to do his business _._

“Actually, you and I have business. And, Aspen has been looking for his cousin. I suspected I would find him in here.”

“Oh.” Branch blinks, shrugging. “I guess I could speak to him. Where is he?”

“Hmm, he should be making his way to the spar quarters.”

 _‘That’s where Creek trains his soldiers.’_ Branch hides away his grimaces and looks at his king.  “Father?”

Sage nods. “You’re dismissed. If I don’t summon you by this evening, we’ll continue this conversation tomorrow.” He lays a hand on Branch’s shoulder as his son stands. “I mean it.”

Branch offers him a rare, genuine smile. “Yes sir.” He goes to bow before his uncle, smiling just as kindly. “I’m hoping we’ll have time to spend together during your stay uncle. I suppose. . . I should get to know my father-in-law better?”

Moss leans forward to kiss Branch on the cheek. “You’ll see this isn’t as bad as all that, my boy. Just wait.” With a tap to the prince’s nose, Moss ushers him towards the door. “Here’s an idea,” Moss says as the prince stalls by the door. “Why don’t you set a time and the activity for us to indulge in. Whatever the time, the day, even in the middle of the night, I’ll make time to enjoy it with you.”

“Really?” beams Branch.

“Of course. What are uncles for?”

Branch nods. “Thanks so much. I’ll consider it for sure!” He leaves them to their discussion, feeling lighter on his feet.

Now, he hopes to find the sparing quarters in one piece when he arrives. Goodness knows, Creek’s temper can be destructive.

Creek’s eyes subtly glow with what’s undoubtedly the beginnings of a vengeful devotion.

He’s suffered enough having to learn he may possibly lose his beloved to the likes of this snobbish, stuck up, arrogant tangerine. Now, the ingrate dares to impose himself in the one place where Creek knows his expertise is flawless and finely honed. And why? All because Aspen believes the soldiers’ skills aren’t up to his hoity tot expectations. And it’s only due to the bastard being royalty that Creek was effectively cast to the side like some child’s unwanted toy and forced to listen in as Aspen presents a lecture of sorts on what’s deemed proper or improper sword handling.  

Aspen as two hundred and sixty first year recruits all lined and positioned in rows of ten, all practicing with bokken swords, thrusting in sync in five second intervals. “See here, I shouldn’t have been able to move you. When I poke you, shouldn’t be the slightest give in your stance. Your feet should be firmly planted on the ground. You there, treat the sword as an extension of yourself, not the part that’s easily detached. If the enemy removes your weapon, your limb may as well be lopped off too.”

Creek rolls his eyes. All of these things he’s said to these young trolls. There’s hardly any difference in his training methods versus Aspen’s and that’s what annoying the tar out of Creek. He honestly thinks he’s shaping up the military to befit the kingdom as if it doesn’t already do so.

. . . That’s very disrespectful now that Creek thinks about it. In fact, it’s downright degrading upon his rank as captain.

Creek sighs, climbing to his feet. He’s seen more than enough he can stomach. He straightens his sleeveless white kimono and black hakama set, then takes his own bokken, stalking over to tap Aspen’s shoulder. The prince turns over his shoulder, forever wearing his charming smile.

“Captain Creek,” he greets and inclines his head. He tugs on the sleeves of his own purple and black kimono hakama outfit, taking Creek’s arm. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you. Walk with me?”

“Of course,” Creek sheathes his sword and beckons one of the sergeants to take over lessons as he and Aspen exit the spar quarters and into one of the adjacent gardens outside. “What would his highness want to speak with me about?”

“How coldly you say that epithet? Is that anyway to speak to your future lover?”

Creek stiffens. “We never agreed to it,” he hisses.

“Not yet, but you will.” Aspen stretches away, spinning Creek unexpectedly and pulls him against his chest. “I see no other way of escaping this fate. Branch will be my mate. You are an extension of him, therefore, you will be an extension of me and cater to my wants as well.”

“Honestly, your arrogance is boundless!” Creek snaps, tugging at his arm until he’s freed. “I’ve no desire to be anything of yours and Branch feels the same way!”

“Are you sure?” Aspen shrugs a shoulder. “When we last spoke, he seemed to be adjusting to the idea of settling in his role. Your reluctance to follow suit isn’t helping. . . Look, Creek, I’m not your enemy.”

“No, you’re just the cause of this whole fiasco of a marriage!”  

“We both want what’s best for Branch. I don’t want to see him unhappy, neither do you. What’s wrong with making the best of an unpleasant situation. I personally don’t view it as awful as all that. The way I see it, I’m gaining a kingdom, two lovers and eventually a horde of trollets to carry on the bloodline.” He winks. “I wouldn’t mind seeing you both plump with my seed.”

Creek’s mouth hangs open. “You’re. . . you’re revolting. How can you say things like that so bluntly?”

“It’s how I am, good captain.” Aspen steps close before Creek can react and presses his mouth against the purple ear. “You’ll grow to love the words that leave my lips. I’ve been told I can sear the flesh off the coldest soul with a mere whisper.” Then he presses a slow, burning kiss beneath that ear and lays a hand upon Creek’s cheek.

Creek’s gaze brewed with a thunderous rage, struggling within himself not to strike out at his potential future king. Such a heinous deed is an automatic charge of treason.

“What’s going on here?”

Creek quickly steps out of Aspen’s reach and pivots to find Branch coming down the cobble stone path. “Prince Branch,” he sputters. “I . . . I swear, it isn’t what you think!”

“I know that.” Branch gives him a confused, disconcerted look. “All these years of your undying devotion and you think I would question your loyalty now?”

Creek wants to melt with relief and goes to stand alongside his lover and as far from the clutches of Aspen’s wandering hands.

“Good morning, sweet cousin. What brings my fiancée out?” Aspen chuckles sensually. “Come to check on your future husband?”

“I already see he’s doing fine.” Branch takes Creek’s hand and kisses the back of his fingers.

“Oh?” Aspen smirks. “Still holding on to the hope that this,” he gestures between the two, “will be accepted?”

 Branch pauses, worrying his bottom lip, then says, “One can hope.”

“And you certainly have high ones. But I digress, I’m a patient troll. Sometimes it takes certain parties to become adjust longer than others. I won’t press you further on your decision. I can wait.” Then with a graceful bow, Aspen leaves the couple to enter the resounding sea of soldiers barking boisterous _‘ahhs’_ and _‘harrs’_.

Now alone, Branch searches all around, and takes Creek’s hand, slipping into a thicker, lush portion of the gardens, surrounded by thick blue and white hydrangea shrubbery, golden hanging bells, and garden beds of various small and colorful flower breeds. A marble stone bench is where they go, their walk a brisk, familiar one and Creek sits first, while Branch kneels by his leg, cradling Creek’s hand in his own.

“Are you alright?”

Creek blinks. “That’s not what I expected from you. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because Aspen is in your sparring quarters and I know how agitated you become when anyone takes over your training sessions.”

“Oh. . . you knew he would be then?”

“After three days of reacquainting myself with my cousin, it isn’t difficult to figure out his character. But he means well. I don’t think he realizes how much of an imperious pest he is.”

Creek snorts. “Pest is right. The way he prances around here, you’d think he were already crowned king.” He quietens, then goes on to say. “The things he says disturb me too. He’s such a sexual deviant. He spoke of desiring to see the two of his swelled with his seed and—”

“I beg your pardon!” Branch shoots to his feet. “He said that?”

“Branch—”

“I’ll swell something on him alright!” Branch spins on his heel, fists clenched and glowing and his eyes just as bright with anger. “The nerve!”

“Branch, Branch, Branch!” Creek laughs under his breath, charging around to cut off his prince’s march. “Believe me, I was just as flustered by his bluntness, but I didn’t say that to invoke violence. I was merely sharing what was discussed.”

“He discusses something that personal so casually?” snaps Branch. He takes a long, deep breath and releases it, wagging the stir of magic from his fingers. “He’s barely here a week and I’m already wishing him gone. I can’t figure out his intentions. Does he want to help, does he want to be mischievous, he’s a puzzle.

“I don’t like him at all,” Creek blurts. “But, and as much as I loathe to admit it, I don’t think he means to cause harm. He’s simply so spoiled that the concept of any troll being against what he wants doesn’t quite register.”

“I suppose.”

Creek moistens his bottom lip and fights to conceal the urge to give into temptation. Three days is normally his limit, but they’re in the open, the sun’s too high and he dare not risk being caught. However . . . Creek steps into the prince’s space without warning and bends to kiss his lips. He doesn’t repress the need to taste and savor Branch’s natural scent because it’s been too long and he can’t stand that they’d been parted.

Branch smiles against his mouth, face warming and gives a short gasp when he’s pressed into the brush and the poking twigs and branches digging in his hip should have deterred this activity, but when has he ever been able to deny Creek? He willingly goes where the hands pushing into his shoulders guide him and with a slight slice of his hair, the bushes part and emit them inside and cover them from view.

As one, their magic blooms and spurs and fabricates a cushiony bubble to protect their skin from scratches and hair from being tangled. It's cozy and theirs and their own escape.

Creek catches his hand and turns it over, palm up and kisses it and brings it to cup his jaw. “I would die for you.”

Branch blinks at the sudden declaration. “I don’t doubt it, but hearing you say is unsettling. As if. . . as if it’s impending.”

“No, hopefully not. But saying _I love you_ doesn’t seem adequate anymore. I want you to feel the strength of my feelings for you, how—how unyielding they are.” Creek takes a white hydrangea from the bushes covering them and fixes it behind Branch’s ear. “I never, ever want there to be doubt.”

“There never will be.” Branch uses both his hands to bring Creek’s in close and nips his lips. He chortles softly. “And if it helps, _I love you_ will suffice perfectly.”

“I’ll figure out something else anyway.” Creek backpedals a little to lay his head over Branch’s chest, wrapping his arms tight around his torso and sighs dreamily. “I wish for moments like this to last always. Just you and me and the quiet of nature.”

Tendrils of the prince’s royal blue hair part from his main stalk to tangle in uneven bundles of Creek’s and he embraces him just as lovingly and kisses his brow. “If only,” he whispers.

If they could spend their lives like this forever, he would. Branch would give his life up for him. The status, the fortune, his bloodline, the magic, none of it means anything to Branch. He would gladly sacrifice it all if it offered the opportunity to walk amongst the world with Creek by his side.

He loves this troll so damned much.

. . . So, why does it feel like the universe is against them being together?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dude, y'all have no idea how much fluff burns my soul, but I love to read it. Does that make me weird? Lol. Stay tuned!

**Author's Note:**

> I'll try not to make the chapters so long. It'll be difficult given what I have planned, but please share your thoughts? I'm always curious how people feel about the first chapter. ^_^


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